( 


SPELLBINDERS 


MARGARET  CULKIN  BANNING 


1 


SPELLBINDERS 

BY 

MARGARET  CULKIN  BANNING 


NEW]  Si  WW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,    BY  THE  METROPOLITAN  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 


SPELLBINDERS.     II 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


2-Z 


8 


s&J&SL 


TO  MY  FATHER 

WILLIAM  E.  CULKIN 

WHO  HAS  TAUGHT  ME  OF  POLITICS 
AND  PHILOSOPHY 


ivi575153 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  AT  THE  BROWNLEYS* 11 

II  FREDA 30 

III  ON   THE  STUMP 36 

IV  CITY   MICE 45 

V  A   HUSBAND 64 

VI  MARGARET 76 

VII  AN   UGLY   GLIMPSE 87 

VIII  ADVENTURE 97 

IX  WORK   FOR   FREDA 108 

X  THE   CLEAN   WIND 116 

XI  NEWSPAPER   CUTS 126 

XII  GREGORY   LECTURES 135 

XIII  LIFE   ENTRUSTED 141 

XIV  WHAT  WAS  TO   BE  EXPECTED          .          .          .          .152 
XV  THE   CONVENTION 174 

XVI  MR.   SABLE  STARTS   SOMETHING     ....  188 

XVII  GAGE  FINISHES  IT 207 

XVIII  IN    HOSPITAL 220 

XIX  MENTAL   SURGERY 229 

XX  BARBARA   BREAKS   LOOSE 243 

xxi  Walter's  solution       ......  259 

XXII  THE   MOURNERS         .......  272 

XXIII  RESPITE 278 


SPELLBINDERS 


CHAPTER  I 


AT   THE   BROWNLEYS' 


GAGE  FLANDON  put  his  wife's  fur  cloak  around 
her  and  stood  back,  watching  her  as  she  took  a  final 
glance  into  the  long  mirror  in  the  hall. 

"I'm  quite  excited/'  she  said.  "Margaret  always  ex- 
cites me  and  I  do  want  you  to  meet  her.  She  really  must 
come  to  stay  with  us,  Gage." 

"If  you  like.    I'm  not  so  keen." 

"Afraid  of  strong-minded  women?" 

"It's  not  their  strong  minds  I'm  afraid  of,  Helen." 

'Their  alluring  personalities?"  She  slipped  an  arm 
into  his  and  led  him  to  the  door. 

"Not  even  that.  Their  horrible  consciousness — self- 
consciousness.  Their  nervousness.  Their  aggressiveness. 
Most  of  all,  I  hate  the  idea  of  their  effect  on  you." 

"You  sound  as  if  whole  cohorts  of  strong-minded  rapa- 
cious women  were  storming  the  city  instead  of  one  old 
college  friend  of  mine  come  to  bolster  up  the  fortunes  of 
your  own  political  party." 

Flandon  helped  her  into  the  automobile. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  said  briefly. 

He  stayed  silent  and  Helen  Flandon  left  him  to  it.  But 
even  in  the  darkness  of  the  car  he  could  feel  her  excite- 
ment and  his  own  irritation  at  it  bothered  him.     There 

ii 


12  Spellbinders 

was  no  reason,  he  told  himself,  to  have  conceived  this 
prejudice  against  this  friend  of  Helen's,  this  Margaret 
Duffield.  Except  that  he  had  heard  so  much  about  her. 
Except  that  she  was  always  being  quoted  to  him,  always 
writing  clever  letters  to  his  wife,  producing  exactly  that 
same  nervous  excitement  which  characterized  her  mood 
to-night.  An  unhealthy  mood.  He  hated  fake  women,  he 
told  himself  angrily,  and  was  angry  at  himself  for  his 
prejudice. 

"It's  too  bad  to  drag  you  out  to  meet  her.  But  I 
couldn't  go  to  the  Brownleys',  of  all  places,  alone, 
could  I?" 

"Of  course  not.  I  don't  mind  coming.  I  want  to  see 
Brownley  anyway.  I  don't  mind  meeting  your  friend, 
Helen.  Probably  I'll  like  her.  But  I  don't  like  to  see  you 
excited  and  disturbed  as  she  always  makes  you.  Even  in 
letters." 

"Nonsense." 

"No — quite  true.  You're  not  real.  You  begin  by  won- 
dering whether  you've  kept  up  to  the  college  standard  of 
women  again.  You  wonder  if  you've  gone  to  seed  and 
begin  worrying  about  it.  You  get  different.  Even  to 
me." 

"How  foolish,  Gage." 

Her  voice  was  very  sweet  and  she  slipped  along  the 
seat  of  the  car  until  she  was  pressed  close  beside  him. 
He  turned  her  face  up  to  his. 

"I  don't  care  what  the  rest  of  the  fool  women  do, 
Helen.  But  I  do  so  love  you  when  you're  real — tangible 
— sweet." 

"I'm  always  real,  about  five  pounds  too  tangible  and 
invariably  sweet." 

"You're  utterly  unreliable,  anyway.  You  promised  me 
you'd  keep  clear  of  this  political  stuff  at  least  for  a  while. 
You  quite  agreed  with  me  that  you  were  not  the  kind 


At  the  Brownleys'  13 

of  person  for  it.  Then  along  comes  this  Duffield  woman 
to  stir  up  things  and  you  forget  everything  you  said  to 
me  and  are  off  in  Mrs.  Brownley's  train." 

"I'm  not  in  anybody's  train,  Gage."  Mrs.  Flandon 
straightened  up.  "And  I  don't  intend  to  be  in  anybody's 
train.  But  it's  a  different  thing  to  show  decent  interest 
in  what  other  women  are  thinking  and  doing.  Perhaps 
you  don't  want  me  to  read  the  newspapers  either." 

"I  merely  want  you  to  be  consistent.  I  don't  want  you 
to  be  one  of  these — " 

"Fake  women,"  supplied  his  wife.  "You  repeat  your- 
self badly,  dear." 

Entering  the  Brownley  drawing-room  a  few  minutes 
after  his  wife,  Gage  found  no  difficulty  in  picking  out  the 
Object  of  his  intended  dislike.  She  was  standing  beside 
Helen  and  looked  at  him  straightly  at  his  entrance  with  a 
level  glance  such  as  used  to  be  the  prerogative  of  men 
alone.  He  had  only  a  moment  to  appraise  her  as  he 
crossed  the  room.  Rather  prettier — well,  he  had  been 
warned  of  that,  she  had  carried  the  famous  Daisy  Chain 
in  college, — cleverly  dressed,  like  his  own  wife,  but  a 
trifle  more  eccentric  perhaps  in  what  she  was  wearing. 
Not  as  attractive  as  Helen — few  women  were  that  and 
they  usually  paled  a  little  beside  her  charm.  A  hard  line 
about  her  mouth — no,  he  admitted  that  it  wasn't  hard — 
undeveloped  perhaps.  About  Helen's  age — she  looked  it 
with  a  certain  fairness — about  thirty-one  or  two. 

She  met  him  with  the  same  directness  with  which  she 
had  regarded  him,  giving  him  her  hand  with  a  charming 
smile  which  seemed  to  be  deliberately  purged  of  coquetry 
and  not  quite  friendly,  he  felt,  though  that,  he  quickly 
told  himself,  must  be  the  reflection  of  his  own  mood. 

"And  how  do  you  find  Helen  ?"  he  asked  her. 

"Very  beautiful — very  dangerous,  as  usual." 

"Dangerous?" 


14  Spellbinders 

"Helen  is  always  dangerous.  She  uses  her  power 
without  directing  it." 

He  had  a  sense  of  relief.  That  was  what  he  had  been 
feeling  for.  That  was  the  trouble  with  Helen.  But  on 
that  thought  came  quickly  irritation  at  the  personal  com- 
ment, at  the  divination  of  the  woman  he  disapproved 
of. 

"It  is  sometimes  a  relief ,"  he  said,  "to  find  some  woman 
who  is  not  deliberately  directing  her  powers." 

"You  make  my  idea  crystallize  into  an  ugly  thought, 
Mr.  Flandon.    It's  hardly  fair." 

There  she  was,  pulling  him  into  heavy  argument.  He 
felt  that  he  had  been  awkward  and  that  it  was  entirely 
her  fault.  He  took  refuge  in  the  commonplaces  of  gal- 
lantry. 

"Ugly  thoughts  are  impossible  in  some  company. 
You're  quite  mistaken  in  my  meaning." 

She  smiled,  a  half  amused  smile  which  did  not  so  much 
reject  his  compliment  as  show  him  how  impervious  she 
was  to  such  things.  Deliberately  she  turned  to  Helen 
who  had  been  enveloped  by  the  ponderous  conversation  of 
the  host.  Mr.  Brownley  liked  to  talk  to  Helen  and  Helen 
was  giving  him  that  absorbed  attention  which  she  usually 
gave  to  any  man.  Gage  and  Margaret  joined  them,  and 
as  if  she  wondered  at  the  brevity  of  their  initial  exchange, 
Helen  gave  them  a  swift  glance. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "have  the  feminist  and  the  anti- 
feminist  found  peace  in  each  other?" 

"She  refuses  to  be  complimented,"  grinned  Gage,  rather 
sheepishly,  immensely  grateful  to  Helen  for  making  a 
joke  of  that  momentary  antagonism. 

"Have  women  given  up  their  liking  for  compliments  ?" 
Mr.  Brownley  beamed  upon  them  beneficently,  quite  con- 
scious of  his  ability  to  remain  gallant  in  his  own  drawing- 
room.    "Not  these  women  surely." 


At  the  Brownleys'  15 

Gage  flushed  a  little.  It  was  almost  what  he  himself 
had  said.    It  had  been  his  tone. 

"We  have  been  given  so  much  more  than  compliments, 
Mj.  Brownley,"  said  Margaret  Duffield,  "that  they  seem 
a  little  tasteless  after  stronger  food." 

"Not  tasteless  to  most  of  us.  Perhaps  to  a  few,  like 
Margaret.  But  most  of  us,  men  and  women,  will  like 
then>as  long  as  we  have  that  passion  for  appearing  to  our- 
selves' as  we  would  like  to  be  and  not  as  we  are.,, 

Over  recovered  ease  of  manner,  Gage  smiled  at  Helen. 
She  had  taken  that  up  neatly.  She  had  penetration,  not 
a  doubt  of  it.  Why  did  she  try  then  to  subordinate  her- 
self to  these  other  women,  people  like  this  Duffield  girl, 
these  arrogant  spinsters?  He  greeted  his  hostess,  who 
came  from  the  library,  where  a  group  of  people  were  al- 
ready settled  about  the  card  tables. 

"Will  you  make  a  fourth  with  the  Stantons  and  Emily 
Haight,  please,  Gage?  You  like  a  good  game  and  Emily 
can  furnish  it." 

Mrs.  Brownley  was  a  tall,  elaborately  marcelled  woman 
of  about  fifty.  Handsome,  people  said,  as  they  do  say  it 
of  a  woman  who  commands  their  eyes  even  when  the  sex 
attraction  has  gone.  She  had  the  ease  of  a  woman  whose 
social  position  is  of  long  standing,  the  graciousness  of 
one  who  has  nothing  to  gain  and  the  slight  aggressive- 
ness of  one  who  has  much  to  bestow.  Gage  liked  her. 
He  remembered  distinctly  the  time  of  her  reign  as  one 
of  the  "younger  matrons" — he  had  been  a  boy  home  from 
college  when,  at  thirty-five,  Mrs.  Brownley,  successfully 
the  mother  of  two  children,  was  dominating  the  gayety 
of  the  city's  social  life.  Just  as  now — her  hair  gray  and 
marcelled,  and  her  dancing  vivacity  cleverly  changed  into 
an  eagerness  of  interest  in  "welfare  work"  or  "civic 
activity" — she  released  energies  more  in  keeping  with  her 
age. 


16  Spellbinders 

'Til  go  anywhere  you  want  me  to,"  he  said,  'Til  play 
checkers  or  casino.  I'll  do  anything — except  talk  to 
feminist  females." 

"Well,  Emily's  surely  no  feminist — go  along  then — " 

It  was  a  very  small  party,  a  dinner  of  ten  to  which 
the  Flandons  had  not  been  able  to  come  because  of  a 
late  afternoon  meeting  at  Gage's  office.  So  he  and  Helen 
had  come  along  later,  informally,  to  meet  the  guest  of 
honor,  now  sitting  with  Helen  on  a  divan,  out  of  the  range 
Of  the  card  players. 

"Have  you  begun  operations  yet?"  Helen  was  asking. 

"Oh,  no.  It's  a  very  vague  job  I  have  and  you  mustn't 
expect  too  much.  I  am  not  supposed  to  interfere  with 
any  local  activities — just  lend  a  hand  in  getting  new 
women  interested,  speaking  a  bit,  that  sort  of  thing,  rous- 
ing up  women  like  you  who  ought  to  be  something  more 
than  agreeable  dilettantes." 

"If  I'm  agreeable — "  began  Helen. 

"I  won't  be  put  off.  You  write  that  nonsense  in  your 
letters.    Why  aren't  you  interested  in  all  this?" 

"I  truly  am.  Very  noticeably.  I'm  secretary  to  this 
and  treasurer  to  that — all  the  women's  things  in  town. 
On  boards  of  directors — no  end." 

"And  you  care  about  them  as  much  as  your  tone 
shows.    Are  you  submerged  in  your  husband  then?" 

"He'd  love  to  hear  you  say  that.  Love  you  for  the 
suspicion  and  hate  you  for  the  utterance.  No — hardly 
submerged.  He's  a  very  fascinating  person  and  I'd  go 
almost  any  lengths — but  hardly  submerged.  Where  did 
you  get  the  word  anyway?  Ultra-modern  for  subju- 
gated? Gage  is  good  to  me.  Lets  me  go  and  come, 
unchallenged — doesn't  read  my  letters — " 

"Stop  being  an  idiot.  I'm  not  insinuating  things 
against  Gage.  What  I'm  trying  to  find  out  is  what 
you  are  interested  in." 


At  the  Brownleys'  17 

"I'm  interested  in  so  many  things  I  couldn't  begin  to 
tell  you.     Psychoanalysis — novels — penny  lunches — you    / 
— Mrs.  Brownley's  career  as  a  politician — my  beloved 
babies — isn't  that  enough  ?" 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  it  is  enough." 

"Well,  then  you  shall  find  me  a  new  job  and  I'll  chuck 
the  old  ones.  Tell  me  about  yourself.  I  hardly  had  a 
chance  to  hear  the  other  day.  So  the  great  Harriet 
Thompson  sent  you  out  to  inspire  the  Middle  West  with 
love  of  the  Republican  party  ?  It's  hardly  like  you,  Mar- 
garet, to  be  campaigning  for  anything  so  shopworn  as 
the  Republican  party." 

"I  do  that  on  the  side.  What  I  do  primarily  is  to 
stir  up  people  to  believe  in  women — especially  women  in 
women." 

"Then  you  don't  believe  in  the  G.  O.  P." 

"I'm  not  a  campaign  speaker,  Helen.  I'm  an  organizer. 
Of  course  I  think  I'd  rather  have  the  Republicans  in 
than  the  Democrats  for  certain  obvious  reasons  but  if 
you  mean  that  I  think  the  Republican  candidate  will 
be  a  Messiah — I  don't.  Gage  is  a  Republican — how 
about  you  ?" 

"Half  Republican— half  Socialist." 

"The  extent  of  your  Socialism  is  probably  a  subscrip- 
tion to  a  couple  of  magazines." 

"About." 

"You  ought  to  focus  on  something,  I  think." 

"Go  on.  It  does  me  good.  After  years  of  hearing 
mouthing  nonsense,"  Helen  spoke  with  sudden  heat,  "of 
hearing  people  say  'How  wonderful  you  are,  Mrs.  Flan- 
don'  and  'How  do  you  manage  to  do  so  much,  Mrs. 
Flandon?'  and  all  sorts  of  blithering  compliments,  it's 
wonderful  to  listen  to  you.  Though  I'm  not  sure  I  could 
focus  if  I  wanted  to — at  least  for  any  definite  period. 
I  do,  for  a  while,  and  then  I  swing  back  to  being  very 


18  Spellbinders 

desperately  married  or  extremely  interested  in  something 
else.  You  can't  put  Gage  in  a  corner  like  some  hus- 
bands, you  know,  Margaret." 

"I  should  imagine  not." 

"Suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Brownley,  coming  up  to  them, 
now  that  her  other  guests  were  disposed  of,  "that  we 
have  a  little  talk  while  the  others  are  busy  and  plan  our 
work  a  little.  You  don't  really  mean  to  carry  Miss  Duf- 
field  off,  do  you,  Helen?" 

"I  must,  Mrs.  Brownley.  I've  been  trying  for  years  to 
get  this  young  woman  to  visit  me  and,  now  that  she  is  in 
the  city,  I  couldn't  let  her  stay  with  any  one  else.  I  didn't 
have  any  idea  that  she  was  going  to  be  the  organizer 
sent  by  the  Women's  Republican  Committee." 

"I  wouldn't  have  been  sent  either,  if  Mrs.  Thompson 
hadn't  been  dreadfully  short  of  workers.  But  she  was, 
and  I  know  her  very  well  and  though  she  knows  I  only 
go  with  her  part  way,  I  promised  to  do  the  best  I  could 
to  organize  things  for  her  and  get  the  women  interested, 
even  if  I  couldn't  speak  in  behalf  of  the  party  and  its 
candidates.  You  see,  Mrs.  Brownley,  we've  done  so  much 
organization  for  suffrage  work  among  women  that  it 
comes  pretty  naturally  to  us  to  do  this  other  work,  just 
as  it  does  to  you." 

Mrs.  Brownley  nodded. 

"You'll  be  an  immense  help,  Miss  Duffield.  What  I 
had  sketchily  planned  was  a  series  of  small  meetings  in 
the  city,  lasting  over  a  period  of  a  couple  of  weeks  and 
then  a  big  rally  of  all  the  women.  You  assure  yourself 
of  your  audience  for  the  big  meeting  by  working  up  the 
small  ones." 

"We  must  have  some  good  speakers,"  said  Margaret, 
"I  am  sure  the  National  Committee  will  send  us  those 
from  time  to  time." 

"The  heavy  work  will  be  in  the  country  districts." 


At  the  Brownleys'  19 

"I  suppose  so.  The  women  there  will  have  to  be 
rounded  up  and  we  should  have  some  women  of  influence 
from  the  country  districts  to  work  with  us.  Can  you  find 
some?" 

'There  are  some,"  answered  Mrs.  Brownley,  "who've 
done  a  good  deal  of  club  work.  There's  a  Mrs.  Ellsmith 
and  there's  a  new  district  chairman  for  the  Federated 
Clubs  who  seems  to  be  a  bright  little  woman — a  Mrs. 
Eric  Thorstad.  She  comes  from  Mohawk,  about  seventy 
miles  out  of  the  city.  It's  a  Normal  School  town,  quite 
a  little  center  for  the  surrounding  villages.  We  might 
write  to  her." 

"We  ought  to  see  her,"  answered  Margaret,  "it  works 
better.  The  more  personal  contact  you  get  with  the 
women  now,  the  better.  Why  can't  we  go  to  Mohawk 
i — is  that  what  you  called  it? — and  some  of  the  sur- 
rounding towns  and  do  a  little  rounding  up?" 

"We  could — very  easily.  Mr.  Brownley  would  let  us 
have  the  Etta — that's  the  special  car  on  his  railroad 
which  runs  through  all  that  country." 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  not.  That  identifies  us 
too  much,  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying  it,  with  the  rail- 
road. No — let's  take  the  regular  trains.  And  make 
this  person  come  with  us  to  do  a  little  talking."  She. 
indicated  Helen  with  a  laugh. 

"I'll  come,"  said  Helen,  "of  course." 

She  sat  back,  as  Margaret  Duffield  went  on  talking* 
in  her  deft,  sure  way,  outlining  the  work  to  be  done. 
It  seemed  to  Helen  that  Margaret  had  hardly  changed 
in  eight  years.  She  had  been  just  like  this  in  college, 
eager,  competent,  doing  things  for  suffrage,  talking  fem- 
inism. Well,  so  had  Helen,  herself.  But  something  had 
changed  her  point  of  view  subtly.  Was  it  being  married, 
she  wondered  ?  She  couldn't  rouse  her  enthusiasms  really 
over  all  this  woman  business  any  more.     Was  it  laziness  ? 


20  Spellbinders 

Was  it  lack  of  inspiration?  Had  she  been  making  too 
many  concessions  to  Gage's  ideas  ?  She  must  have  Mar- 
garet at  her  house.  She  wanted  to  see  her  and  Gage  in 
action.  How  they  would  row!  She  laughed  a  little  to 
herself,  thinking  of  Gage.  The  warm  little  feeling  crept 
over  her  that  always  returned  as  she  thought  of  him. 
How  foolish  Margaret  was  to  miss  all  that — living  with 
a  man.  Suddenly  she  felt  expanded,  experienced.  She 
wanted  to  do  something  to  show  that  all  her  discon- 
tents had  vanished.  She  had  been  nervous  and  dissatis- 
fied since  Margaret  had  come.  Well,  she  had  come,  and 
Helen  had  measured  herself  up  beside  her,  fearful  of 
shrinkage  in  her  own  stature.  What  was  it  that  to-night 
had  reassured  her,  made  her  feel  that  Margaret  had  not 
really  gone  beyond  her,  that  she  was  not  really  jealous  of 
Margaret's  kind  of  life? 

The  others  were  still  talking  of  projected  trips  into  the 
country.  "Let's  go  then,"  said  Helen,  leaning  forward, 
"and  get  them  so  stirred  up  that  we  leave  all  the  old 
farmers  gasping.  Let's  start  a  rebellion  of  country 
women.    Let's  get  them  thinking!" 

Margaret  stared  at  her. 

"That  sounds  more  like  you!"  she  exclaimed. 

"I'm  full  of  energy,"  said  Helen,  on  her  feet  now. 
"Margaret,  you  must  come  to  my  house  within  three  days 
or  I'll  send  a  policeman  for  you.  And  now  I'm  going  to 
break  up  Gage's  bridge  game." 

She  could  break  it  up.  Gage  was  immediately  con- 
scious of  her.  As  she  sat  beside  him,  pretending  quiet 
and  interest,  he  could  feel  that  she  was  neither  quiet  nor 
interested.  He  was  pleased  that  she  had  broken  away 
from  the  Duffield  girl  to  come  to  him.  He  wanted  to 
acknowledge  it.  To  throw  down  his  cards  and  put  his 
arms  about  her.  Since  he  couldn't  do  that  he  kept  on 
thinking  of  it. 


At  the  Brownley  s'  21 

"You  bring  us  bad  luck,  Mrs.  Flandon,"  said  Gage's 
partner,  with  a  flavor  of  tartness. 

She  rose  again,  laying  her  hand  lightly  on  her  hus- 
band's shoulder. 

"Driven  away  from  the  serious  minded  everywhere. 
If  I  go  into  the  music  room  and  shut  the  door  tightly, 
may  I  play  ?" 

That  she  knew  would  disturb  Gage  too.  And  she 
couldn't  help  disturbing  him.  She  would  play  the  things 
that  held  especial  meanings  for  him  and  her.  She  would 
play  the  things  which  she  had  used  to  play  in  college  for 
Margaret  on  Sunday  evenings,  set  her  by  the  ears  too, 
startle  her  out  of  her  seriousness  as  she  had  used  to  startle 
her.  She  would  arouse  in  Margaret  some  of  those  emo- 
tions which  couldn't  be  dead.  She  would  find  out  if  she 
had  those  emotions  still. 

Then  over  the  first  notes  she  forgot  what  she  meant  to 
do.  She  was  alone  with  herself — she  had  forgotten  the 
others.  And  because  she  had  forgotten,  the  things  hap- 
pened to  the  others  as  she  had  meant  them  to  happen. 
Gage,  bidding  deliberately  to  make  his  hand  the  dummyr 
left  the  card  table  and  outside  the  door  of  the  music 
room  found  Margaret,  also  listening.  They  took  refuge 
in  immediate  conversation. 

"So  she  keeps  up  her  music,"  said  Margaret. 

"Yes.  She  works  several  hours  a  day.  And  we  have 
an  excellent  teacher  out  here  in  the  wilderness." 

With  a  formal  excuse,  he  returned  to  his  bridge  game. 


At  midnight  Mrs.  Brownley  broke  up  the  bridge  by 
summoning  the  players  to  the  dining  room  where  there 
were  iced  drinks  and  sandwiches.  Mrs.  Brownley  did 
that  sort  of  thing  extremely  well.    Men  used  to  say  with 


22  Spellbinders 

gratitude  that  she  knew  enough  not  to  keep  them  up  all 
night,  and  her  informal  buffet  suppers  closed  the  eve- 
ning comfortably  for  them.  It  was  a  "young"  crowd 
to-night — not  young  according  to  the  standards  of  the  de- 
butante Brownleys  but  people  between  thirty  and  forty. 
The  Stantons,  whom  everybody  had  everywhere  because 
they  were  good  company  and  perfectly  fitting  in  any 
group.  Emily  Haight,  who  had  become  ash-blond  and  a 
little  caustic  with  the  decreasing  possibilities  of  a  good 
marriage  but  whom  every  one  conceded  had  a  good 
mind,  who  "read  everything"  and  played  a  master  hand  of 
bridge.  She  had  sat  next  to  Walter  Carpenter  at  dinner, 
as  she  inevitably  was  placed  when  they  were  in  the  same 
company,  because  they  had  known  each  other  so  well  and 
long  and  because  it  seemed  to  be  in  the  back  of  people's 
mind  that  steady  propinquity  ought  to  produce  results 
in  emotion.  He  was  quite  the  person  for  Emily — about 
her  age,  well-to-do,  popular,  keen-minded.  But  to-night 
at  dinner  he  had  devoted  himself  almost  pointedly  to  Mar- 
garet Duffield.  They  had  rallied  him  afterwards  at  the 
card  table  about  his  sudden  interest  in  feminism  and  he 
had  smiled  his  self-controlled  smile  and  let  them  have 
their  joke.  He  had  played  cards  with  Jerrold  Haynes, 
another  of  Mrs.  Brownley's  "intellectuals,"  who  had 
written  a  book  once,  and  had  it  published  (though  never 
another),  and  who  managed  to  concoct,  with  the  help 
of  Helen  Flandon,  almost  all  the  clever  remarks  which 
were  au  courant  in  their  particular  circle.  He  and  Car- 
penter had  tried  to  make  Margaret  play  bridge  but  she 
had  told  them  that  she  couldn't,  reducing  them  to  a 
three-handed  game  which  they  were  ready  to  abandon 
at  twelve  o'clock. 

Jerrold  went  as  usual  to  Helen's  side.  There  was  a 
friendship  between  them  which  bathed  in  a  kind  of  half- 
serious  worship  on  his  part  and  a  bantering  comrade- 


At  the  Brownleys'  23 

ship  on  hers.  They  sat  together  in  a  corner  of  the  long, 
oak-paneled  dining  room  and  made  conversation  about 
the  others,  conversation  for  the  sake  of  clever  words. 

"Walter  has  made  his  way  to  the  candle  flame  again. 
He  seems  to  have  been  captured,"  said  Jerrold. 

Helen  looked  across  the  room  curiously.  Gage  and 
Walter  were  both  talking  to  Margaret  who  was  standing 
in  a  little  glow  of  electric  candle  light.  Helen  remembered 
that  in  college  Margaret  had  done  her  hair  that  same 
way,  in  a  loose  knot  modeled  after  some  sculptured 
Psyche. 

"Don't  you  think  she  is  lovely  ?"  she  asked  more  in 
comment  than  question. 

"Do  you  mean  beautiful  ?" 

"Well— what  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  quite  think  of  her  as  a  woman." 

"Silly  stuff—" 

"No,  truly.  Most  women  you  sense.  They  either  try 
to  use  their  sex  to  allure  or  impress  you  or  else  they  re- 
press it  for  any  one  of  a  dozen  reasons.  She — some- 
how seems  to  lack  it." 

"It's  not  so  easy  as  that,  Jerrold,  you  phrase-maker. 
I've  known  her  a  long  while  and  I  have  no  idea  whether 
she's  in  love,  has  been  in  love,  yearns  after  or  fights 
against  it.    You  guess  boldly,  but  probably  not  well." 

"Maybe  not.  You  must  tell  me  if  I  am  right  and  you 
find  it  out." 

There  was  a  sound  of  motors  in  the  drive  outside, 
then  high  pitched  voices,  and  Mrs.  Brownley  went  out 
into  the  hall. 

"Isn't  this  early  for  the  youngsters?"  asked  Gage. 

They  all  laughed  but  though  the  conversation  went  on 
as  before,  an  anticipation  rested  on  them  all.  Against 
the  background  of  the  chattering  voices  in  the  hall, 
they  seemed  a  little  subdued,  waiting. 


24  Spellbinders 

Allison  Brownley  pushed  her  escort  in.  He  seemed 
to  be  reluctant  but  she  had  her  hands  on  his  back  and 
he  came  through  the  door,  stumbling. 

"We  can  come  to  the  high  brow  party,  can't  we?" 
cried  Allison.  "Can't  we  have  some  food?  We're 
perfectly  starved  and  there  wasn't  a  table  to  be  had  at 
the  Rose  Garden." 

"I  knew  you  must  have  been  driven  out  of  every- 
where to  come  home  this  early,"  called  Gage,  "though 
of  course  young  men  in  the  banking  business  might 
benefit  by  somewhat  earlier  hours." 

The  young  man  laughed  awkwardly.  He  was  a  rather 
pale,  small  young  man,  badly  dwarfed  by  Gage's  unusual 
bulk  and  suggesting  a  consciousness  of  it  when  he  tried 
to  draw  Allison  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  But  she 
preferred  Gage  for  the  moment.  She  was  not  a  pretty 
girl  though  she  made  that  negligible.  What  was  impor- 
tant about  her  was  her  vigor  and  her  insolent  youngness. 
Her  hair  was  cut  just  below  her  ears  and  curled  under 
in  an  outstanding  shock  and  her  scarlet  evening  dress 
and  touches  of  rouge  made  Margaret,  as  she  stood  beside 
her,  seem  paler,  older,  without  vigor.  But  she  stood 
there  only  a  moment,  poised.  Then  the  others,  six  of 
them,  had  invaded  the  dining  room.  Giggling,  spurting 
into  noisy  laughter  at  unrevealed  jokes,  eating  greedily, 
separating  from  the  older  people  as  if  nothing  in  common 
could  be  conceived  among  them,  they  went  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  room,  Allison  with  some  youthfully  insolent 
remark  hurled  back  at  Gage. 

The  others  seemed  suddenly  conscious  that  it  was  mid- 
night— the  time  when  only  extreme  youth  had  a  right 
to  be  enjoying  itself.  They  took  upon  themselves  the 
preliminary  airs  of  departure.  But  Helen,  separating 
herself  from  the  group,  went  down  the  room  to  the 
young  people. 


At  the  Brownleys'  25 

They  had  settled  into  chairs  and  began  to  rise  a  little 
awkwardly  but  she  did  not  let  them,  sitting  down  herself 
on  the  arm  of  Allison's  chair  and  bending  to  talk  to  them 
all.  They  burst  into  gales  of  laughter  at  something  she 
said.  Gage  and  Jerrold  watched  her  from  the  other  end 
of  the  room. 

It  was  wonderful,  thought  Gage,  how  even  beside 
those  young  faces,  her  beauty  stood  out  as  more  brilliant. 
How  her  hair  shone  under  those  soft  lights!  How 
golden,  mellow,  she  was  in  every  gesture ! 

Jerrold,  in  need  of  some  one  to  whom  to  comment, 
isolated  Margaret. 

"Watch  your  amazing  friend/'  he  said,  "those  children 
made  us  feel  old  and  stiff  muscled.  See  how  she  is 
showing  us  that  they  are  raw  and  full  of  angles." 

"Is  it  important  ?"  asked  Margaret. 

"I  suppose  not.  Except  that  it  is  a  time  when  youth 
seems  to  be  pretty  securely  on  the  throne  of  things. 
And  I  like  to  see  it  get  a  jolt." 

m 

All  the  way  home,  Gage  had  wanted  to  say  something 
to  his  wife,  something  in  appreciation  of  her  beauty, 
something  to  still  somehow  the  desire  to  express  his  love. 
As  they  stood  for  a  moment  in  their  hallway  he  sought 
for  but  could  not  find  the  words.  There  was  in  him  a 
conflicting,  a  very  definite  enmity  to  her  consciousness 
of  her  powers.  He  did  not  want  to  increase  it.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  to  have  her  know  her  charm  meant 
that  she  would  lose  it.  He  had  seen  her  lose  it  so. 
When  he  felt  that  she  was  deliberate — 

"You  were  very  charming  to-night,  dearest." 
"The  first  duty  of  a  woman,"  she  laughed,  "is  to  be 
charming,  if  she  can." 


26  Spellbinders 

There  it  was.  She  had  set  him  back.  He  felt  it 
cruelly.  Why  hadn't  she  simply  turned  and  thanked  him, 
given  him  the  caress  he  was  waiting  for?  Why  had  she 
made  it  all  what  he  suspected?  She  had  planned  every 
move.  Probably  planning  now — he  became  stubborn, 
thwarted,  angry. 

"I  didn't  care  much  for  your  friend,,,  he  said,  lighting 
his  cigarette. 

"No?     But  you  won't  mind  my  having  her  here." 

"Well,  as  you  know,  I'd  much  prefer  not.  I  don't 
think  that  sort  of  woman  a  healthy  influence." 

"And  yet  you  know,  Gage,  I  might  be  getting  a  little 
tired  of  merely  healthy  influences.  The  change  might 
set  me  up." 

She  too  was  strangely  angry.  She  had  been  thrilled 
all  evening  by  the  thought  of  this  home-coming.  She 
had  been  saving  up  emotions  to  throw  her  into  Gage's 
arms.  She  wanted  to  feel — to  tell  him  she  loved  him. 
He  was  making  it  impossible. 

They  stood  there,  longing  for  each  other,  yet  on  guard 
mentally,  afraid  of  the  other's  thrust,  the  other's  mockery. 

"Of  course  I  can't  refuse  to  let  you  have  any  friend 
of  yours  here  at  the  house.  Only  if  she  comes,  I  do 
wish  you'd  excuse  me  as  much  as  possible.  I  do  not 
want  to  be  rude  and  I  certainly  shall  be  if  she  involves 
me  in  these  feminist  arguments." 

"I  don't  believe  Margaret  would  argue  with  you, 
Gage."  She  said  it  lightly,  her  insinuation  that  he  was 
beyond  the  pale  of  argument  flicking  him  with  a  little 
sting. 

"Possibly  not.  However,  I  should  not  care  to  waste 
her  time.  And  as  I  said  to  you  to-night  I  don't  like  her 
effect  on  you." 

"I  am  not  particularly  under  her  influence,  Gage.  I 
have  my  own  ideas.     What  you  probably  mean  is  that 


At  the  Brownleys'  27 

you  object  to  my  doing  the  things  which  are  interesting 
women  all  over  the  world." 

"When  have  I  ever  objected  to  anything  you've  done?'' 

"I've  done  nothing,  have  I?  Been  secretary  to  a  few 
small  town  clubs.  Kept  house.  Tended  my  babies. 
That's  all  I've  done  except  play  the  piano." 

"Did  that  dissatisfy  you  as  much  as  your  tone  implies  ?" 

"It's  not  enough  to  satisfy  women  now." 

He  shrugged. 

"Well — do  anything  you  please,  my  dear.  I  certainly 
won't  stop  you  if  you  run  for  office." 

She  was  very  cold. 

"You're  sneering  at  me,  Gage." 

He  tossed  away  his  cigarette  and  came  up  to  her  where 
she  stood,  still  muffled  in  the  cloak  she  had  worn.  She 
was  fast  in  his  embrace  and  it  gave  her  the  moment  of 
relief  she  had  sought.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  lay 
relaxed  against  his  shoulder.  And  then  came  the  creeping 
little  fear.  He  had  managed  her  like  that.  He  couldn't 
respect  her. 

"Darling  Helen—" 

Her  thought  spoke. 

"Margaret  would  never  have  let  herself  go  off  the  point 
like  this—" 

"Oh,  damn  Margaret!"  said  Gage,  letting  her  go, 
angrily. 

Helen  looked  at  him  in  disgust  and  went  upstairs. 

It  wasn't,  thought  Gage,  pacing  up  and  down  the 
living  room,  as  if  he  were  a  reactionary.  Helen  knew 
that.  He  had  no  objection  to  women  doing  anything. 
He'd  said  so.  He'd  shown  it.  He'd  put  women  on  his 
local  Republican  committee.  And  sized  them  up  pretty 
well  too,  he  told  himself.  They  worked  well  enough  on 
certain  things.     Some  of  them  had  good  minds.     But 


28  Spellbinders 

the  issue  with  him  and  Helen  had  nothing  to  do  with 
granting  women  a  concession  here  and  there.  That  was 
all  right.  The  trouble  was  with  this  woman,  these 
women  who  made  Helen  so  restless,  so  unsettled  for  no 
particular  reason,  with  no  particular  object.  He  hated, 
as  he  had  said,  the  self-consciousness  of  it  all.  He 
hated  this  self-conscious  talk,  this  delving  into  emotions, 
*  this  analysis  of  psychical  states  and  actions,  this  setting 
of  sex  against  sex.  It  ate  into  emotions.  It  had  made 
women  like  that  Margaret.  He  measured  his  dislike  of 
her,  bitterly.  Even  on  their  wedding  trip  she  had 
interfered.  He  remembered  the  first  flagging  in  Helen's 
abandonment  to  her  love  for  him.  That  letter  from 
Margaret,  outwardly  kind,  he  felt,  outwardly  all  right, 
but  suggesting  things  had  brought  it  about.  Helen  had 
shown  it  to  him. 

"She's  afraid  we'll  become  commonplace  married 
people,"  she  said,  "but  we  won't,  will  we  ?" 

There,  at  the  start,  it  had  begun.  Discussion  when 
there  should  have  been  no  discussion — feelings  pried 
into.  How  he  hated  college  women.  It  should  be 
prohibited  somehow — these  girls  getting  together  and 
talking  about  things.  Forming  these  alliances.  All 
along  the  line,  for  six  years,  and  this  was  the  first  time 
he'd  even  met  her,  this  Margaret  had  been  held  up  to 
him.  Margaret's  letters  had  come  and  with  each  of  them 
would  sweep  over  Helen  that  fear  that  she  was  becoming 
dull — sliding  backward — those  little  reactions  against  him 
— those  pull-backs.  At  the  time  Bennett  was  born  the 
same  thing  had  happened.  First  the  natural  beauty,  then 
/that  fear  of  being  swept  under  by  "domesticity."  The 
way  they  used  the  word  as  if  it  were  a  shame,  a  disgrace. 
He  felt  he  had  never  told  Helen  the  half  he  felt  about 
these  things.  And  now  that  rotten  oath  had  put  him  in 
the  wrong.    He'd  have  to  apologize.    He'd  have  to  begin 


At  the  Brownleys'  29 

with  an  apology  and  there  he  would  be  put  in  the  entire 
wrong  again.  It  wasn't  as  if  women  didn't  have  to  be 
handled  like  children  anyhow.  They  did.  What  could 
you  do  with  them  when  they  got  into  moods  except  coax 
them  out  of  it?  There  was  Helen  upstairs  now,  probably 
hating  him — wishing  she  were  free — envying  that  spinster 
friend  of  hers. 

His  thoughts  took  a  sudden  turn.  She  couldn't  quite 
wish  that.  Surely  she  didn't  want  not  to  be  married  to 
him.  She'd  never  said  anything  like  that.  He  didn't 
really  think  she  had  ever  for  a  minute  wished  it.  She 
was  crazy  about  Bennett  and  Peggy.  She  loved  him 
too. 

On  that  thought  he  went  upstairs,  his  apology  on  his 
lips,  his  mind  tangled,  but  his  need  of  peace  with  Helen 
very  great. 


CHAPTER  II 


FREDA 


FREDA  met  her  father  on  the  street  three  blocks  from 
home.  She  saw  him  coming,  laden  as  usual  with 
books,  a  package  of  papers  from  the  psychology  class  to 
correct — and  the  meat.  The  collar  of  his  ulster  was 
turned  up  around  his  ears  but  Freda  knew  him  even  in 
the  gathering  twilight,  a  block  away.  There  was  a  de- 
pendency about  Eric  Thorstad's  figure — about  the  meat — 
that  was  part  of  her  life. 

"Liver  or  veal  ?"  she  asked  gayly,  taking  the  fat  package 
from  under  his  arm. 

"It's  a  secret." 

"Sausage,"  she  said,  "I  can  tell  by  the  feel  and  the 
smell." 

"Aren't  you  late,  Freda  ?" 
'   "I  went  to  the  movies." 

"Again?     I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  so  often.     What 
do  you  get  out  of  them?" 

"Thrills,  father  dear." 

"All  unreal." 

She  skipped  into  a  stride  that  matched  his. 

"A  thrill  is  a  shiver  of  romance,"  she  declared,  "it's 
never  unreal." 

"And  what  gives  the  shiver?     The  white  sheet?" 

"I'm  open  minded.     Could  be  a  well  tailored  garden, 
Nazimova's  gown,  a  murder  on  a  mountain." 

He  laughed  and  they  went  along  briskly  until  they 
came  to  the  third  in  a  row  of  small  yellow  frame  houses, 

30 


Freda  31 

and  turned  in  at  the  scrap  of  cement  walk  which  led  up 
to  the  porch. 

In  the  kitchen  Mrs.  Thorstad  turned  from  the  stove  to 
kiss  them  both. 

"How  was  your  meeting?"  asked  her  husband. 

A  kind  of  glow  came  over  Adeline  Thorstad's  face. 

"It  was  a  lovely  meeting.  I  am  sure  that  it  is  signifi- 
cant that  so  many  women,  even  women  like  old  Mrs. 
Reece  will  come  to  hear  a  talk  on  their  civic  responsi- 
bilities.    You  should  have  managed  to  come,  Freda." 

Freda  put  an  arm  about  her  mother's  shoulders. 

"I  couldn't,"  she  said.  "I'd  have  spoiled  the  circle 
of  thought.     I  don't  care  whether  women  vote  or  not." 

She  was  six  inches  taller  than  her  mother's  neat 
prettiness  and  at  first  glance  not  nearly  so  attractive. 
Her  rather  coarse  hair  was  too  thick  and  pulled  back  into 
a  loose  low  knot  and  her  features  were  heavier  than  those 
of  her  mother's,  her  skin  less  delicate.  The  neat  pyramid 
of  her  mother's  blond  hair,  her  smooth,  fair  skin  were 
almost  as  they  had  been  fifteen  years  before.  But  Freda 
showed  more  promise  for  fifteen  years  hence.  Her  hair 
shaded  from#yellow  to  orange  red,  her  eyes  were  deep 
blue  and  her  loose-hung,  badly  managed  figure  showed  a 
broad  gracefulness  that  her  mother's  lacked. 

She  had  somehow  taken  the  little  qualities  of  her 
mother's  prettiness  and  made  them  grander,  so  that  she 
seemed  to  have  been  modeled  from  an  imperfect  idea 
rather  than  a  standard  type.  In  her  father  was  the 
largeness  of  build  which  might  have  accounted  for  her, 
though  not  too  obviously  for  Mr.  Thorstad  stooped  a 
little  and  days  in  the  classroom  had  drained  his  face  of 
much  natural  color.  Still  he  had  carried  over  from 
some  ancestor  a  suggestion  of  power  which  he  and  his 
daughter  shared. 


32  Spellbinders 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Freda.  It's  so  reactionary. 
Women  nowadays — " 

"I  know.  But  I  don't  especially  approve  of  women 
nowadays,"  teased  Freda.  "I  think  that  maybe  we  were 
a  lot  more  interesting  or  delightful  or  romantic  as  we 
were  when  we  didn't  pretend  to  have  brains." 

But  her  mother  ignored  her. 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  she  said.  "Set  the  table  and 
then  I  must  tell  you  my  news." 

They  were  used  to  news  from  Mrs.  Thorstad.  She 
was  full  of  the  indomitable  energy  that  created  little 
events  and  situations  and  exulted  in  them.  Victories  in 
the  intrigues  of  the  district  federated  clubs,  small 
entanglements,  intricate  machinations  were  common- 
places to  her  husband  and  daughter  since  Mrs.  Thorstad 
had  become  district  vice-president. 

So  now  when  the  sausage,  flanked  by  its  mound  of 
mashed  potatoes,  came  sizzling  to  the  table  and  Freda 
had  satisfied  her  soul  by  putting  three  sprays  of  red  marsh- 
berries  in  a  dull  green  bowl  in  the  middle,  they  looked 
forward  to  dinner  with  more  anticipation  than  to  Mrs. 
Thorstad's  surprise.  But  she  began  impressively,  and 
without  delay. 

"I  think  that  this  entrance  of  women  into  politics  may 
alter  the  whole  course  of  our  lives." 

Freda  and  her  father  exchanged  a  whimsical  friendly 
glance  in  which  no  disrespect  blended. 

"No  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Thorstad. 

"If  I  were  called  to  public  office,  think  what  a  differ- 
ence it  would  make !" 

"What  difference  ?"  asked  Freda. 

"Why — there'd  be  more  money,  more  chances  to  better 
ourselves." 

Her  husband  seemed  to  shrink  at  the  cheaply  aspiring 


Freda  33 

phrase,  then  looked  at  her  with  something  like  the  patience 
of  one  who  refuses  to  be  hurt. 

"So  now  you  want  to  be  the  breadwinner  too,  my; 
dear?" 

Perhaps  she  took  that  for  jocosity.  She  did  not 
answer  directly. 

"I  met  Mrs.  Brownley — the  Mrs.  Brownley — at  a 
meeting  not  long  ago.  She  said  she  thought  there  would 
be  a  future  for  me." 

"No  doubt,"  said  her  husband,  again. 

He  gazed  into  the  sausage  platter  reflectively. 

Twenty  years  ago,  he  might  have  remembered,  Adeline 
Miller  had  thought  there  was  a  future  for  him.  She  had 
intended  to  better  herself  through  him.  She  was  teach- 
ing then  in  a  little  town  and  he  was  county  superintendent. 
They  had  met  and  been  attracted  and  after  a  little  she 
had  condoned  the  fact  of  his  Swedish  name  and  of  the 
two  parents  who  spoke  no  English.  She  had  exchanged 
the  name  of  Miller  for  Thorstad,  soberly,  definitely 
determined  to  better  herself  and  profit  by  the  change. 

Then  there  came  Freda.  Freda,  who  had  stimulated 
them  both  as  healthy  promising  babies  are  likely  to 
stimulate  their  parents.  Thorstad  had  become  a  High 
School  instructor,  then  had  left  that  position  after  eight 
years  to  come  as  assistant  to  the  professor  of  psychology 
in  the  Mohawk  State  Normal  School,  at  a  slightly  lower 
salary,  but  "bettering  himself."  Ten  years  ago,  that  was. 
He  was  head  of  his  department  now — at  three  thousand 
a  year.  It  was  his  natural  height  and  he  had  attained 
it — not  a  prospector  in  his  work,  but  a  good  instructor 
always.  It  had  taken  much  labor  to  have  come  so  far, 
nights  of  study,  summers  spent  in  boarding  houses  near 
the  University  that  he  might  get  his  degrees.  And 
Adeline  had  gone  along  her  own  path.     During  all  these 


34  Spellbinders 

years  in  Mohawk  she  had  been  busy  too.  First  with 
little  literary  clubs,  later  with  civic  councils,  state  federa- 
tions, all  the  intricate  machinery  of  woman's  clubdom. 

She  had  her  rewards.  Federation  meetings  in  the 
cities,  little  speeches  which  she  made  with  increasing  skill. 
She  had  been  "speaking"  for  a  long  time  now.  During 
the  war  she  fortified  her  position  with  volunteer  speaking 
for  Liberty  Loans,  War  Saving  Stamps.  All  this  in  the 
name  of  "bettering  others."  All  this  with  that  guiding 
impulse  to  "better  herself." 

Her  husband  made  no  demands  on  her  time  which 
interfered  with  any  public  work.  If  it  was  necessary  he 
could  cook  his  own  meals,  make  his  own  bed,  even  do 
his  own  washing,  and  there  had  been  times  when  he  had 
done  all  this  for  himself  and  Freda.  Not  that  Mrs. 
Thorstad  ever  neglected  her  family.  The  Family,  like 
Democracy  and  the  Cradle,  were  three  strong  talking 
points  always.  She  was  a  fair  cook  and  a  good  house- 
keeper, a  little  mechanical  in  her  routine  but  always 
adequate.  And  when  she  was  away  she  always  left  a 
batch  of  bread  and  doughnuts  and  cookies.  It  was  never 
hard  on  Eric  and  he,  unlike  some  men,  was  handy  around 
the  house.  He  was  handy  with  Freda  too  from  the  time 
he  dressed  her  as  a  baby  until  now.  Now  he  was  handy 
with  her  moods,  with  her  incomprehensible  unwillingness 
to  better  herself  by  sharing  in  her  mother's  plans. 

Leaning  a  little  toward  her  mother  now,  Freda  brought 
the  conversation  off  generalities. 

"But  the  news?     We  are  all  agog." 

"The  news  is  that  we  are  to  have  distinguished  guests 
on  Thursday.  Mrs.  Brownley,  Mrs.  Gage  Flandon,  and 
Miss  Margaret  Duffield  of  New  York  are  making  a  tour 
of  the  country  and  they  are  to  stop  here  for  a  day.  I  am 
to  arrange  everything  for  them.  There  is  no  telling  to 
what  it  may  lead." 


Freda  35 

'They're  coming  here?"  Freda's  tone  was  disgusted. 
"A  lot  of  women  spellbinders.  Oh,  Lord,  save  us.  I'm 
going  camping." 

"It  is  a  great  privilege,"  said  her  mother,  with  a  tight 
little  motion  of  her  lips.     "I  shall  need  you,  Freda." 


CHAPTER  III 

ON  THE  STUMP 


ST.  PIERRE  was  the  big  city  of  the  state.  Around  it  a 
host  of  little  towns,  farming,  manufacturing,  farther 
away  even  mining,  made  it  their  center  and  paid  it  tribute 
by  mail-order  and  otherwise.  It  was  one  of  the  Middle 
West  cities  at  which  every  big  theatrical  star,  every  big 
musical  "attraction,"  every  well  booked  lecturer  spent  at 
least  one  night.  It  boasted  branch  establishments  of 
exclusive  New  York  and  Chicago  shops.  It  had  its 
paragraph  in  the  marriage,  birth  and  death  section  in 
Vogue.    Altogether  it  was  not  at  all  to  be  ignored. 

Harriet  Thompson  had  known  what  she  was  doing 
when  she  sent  Margaret  Duffield  West  to  organize  the 
women  of  the  St.  Pierre  section  in  groups  which  could 
be  manipulated  for  the  Republican  party. 

Margaret  stayed  with  Mrs.  Brownley  for  a  few  days 
and  then  spent  a  week  with  Helen,  during  which  time 
she  found  a  pleasant  room  and  bath  which  she  leased  by 
the  month,  and  to  which  she  insisted  on  going. 

Helen's  remonstrances  had  no  effect. 

"You're  foolish  to  think  of  such  a  thing  as  my  camping 
on  you.  Why  I  may  be  here  for  several  months.  No, 
I  couldn't.  Besides  we'll  have  a  really  better  time  if  we 
don't  have  to  be  guesting  each  other.  And  I  get  a 
reasonable  amount  for  expenses  which  really  needn't  be 
added  on  to  your  grocery  bill.  Gage  has  party  expense 
enough." 

36 


On  the  Stump  37 

Gage  was  very  cordial,  particularly  as  he  saw  that  her 
visit  was  not  to  be  indefinite.  It  hurried  him  perhaps 
into  greater  gallantry  than  he  might  have  otherwise 
shown.  He  did  everything  to  be  the  obliging  host  and 
to  his  surprise  enjoyed  himself  immensely.  Margaret 
was  more  than  a  good  talker.  She  gave  him  inside 
talk  on  some  things  that  had  happened  in  Washington. 
She  could  discuss  politicians  with  him.  No  one  spoke 
of  the  deteriorating  influences  of  marriage  and  the  home 
on  women.  Margaret  was  delightful  with  the  children. 
She  did  not  hint  at  a  desire  to  see  him  psychoanalyzed. 
He  found  himself  rather  more  cooperative  than  antago- 
nistic and  on  the  day  of  Margaret's  definite  removal  to 
her  new  room  he  was  even  sorry. 

Helen  found  the  new  room  most  attractive.  It  was 
a  one-room  and  bath  apartment,  so-called,  furnished 
rather  badly  but  with  a  great  deal  of  air  and  light. 

"It  feels  like  college,"  she  said,  sinking  down  on  a 
cretonne  covered  couch  bed.  "Atrocious  furniture  but  so 
delightfully  independent.  What  fun  it  must  be  to  feel 
so  solidly  on  your  own,  Margaret." 

"Not  always  fun,  but  satisfying,"  said  Margaret, 
making  a  few  passes  at  straightening  furniture. 

Helen  sighed  faintly  and  then  lost  the  sigh  in  a  little 
laugh. 

"I'm  actually  afraid  to  ask  you  some  things,"  she 
admitted,  "I'm  afraid  of  what  you'll  say.  Would  you 
really  sooner  not  be  married  ?" 

"I  think  so.  Emotional  moments  of  course.  On  the 
whole  I  think  I'd  rather  not  be." 

"But  you  didn't  always  feel  that  way." 

"No — not  six  years  ago." 

"Then  was  there  a  man  you  wanted?" 

"There  were  several  men.  But  I  didn't  want  them 
hard  enough  or  they  didn't  want  me  simultaneously." 


38  Spellbinders 

"Where  are  they  now?" 

"God  knows — quarreling  with  their  wives,  perhaps." 

"And  you  don't  care?" 

"Truly — not  a  bit."  Margaret's  eyes  were  level  and 
quite  frank.  "It's  all  dreadful  nonsense,  this  magazine 
story  stuff  about  the  spinsters  with  their  secret  yearnings 
covered  up  all  the  time.  I'm  going  to  do  something  to 
prick  that  bubble  before  I  die.  Of  course  the  conceit  of 
married  people  is  endless  but  at  least  spinsters  have  a 
right  to  as  much  dignity  as  bachelors." 

"All  right,"  said  Helen,  "I'll  respect  you.  I  know  I'm 
going  home  and  that  you  aren't  following  me  with  wist- 
ful eyes  wishing  you  could  caress  my  babies.  Is  that  it  ? 
You  comb  your  hair  without  a  qualm  and  go  down  to 
dinner." 

"Exactly.  Only  before  you  go  I  want  you  to  promise 
to  go  with  us  on  this  trip  to  the  country  towns.  We'll 
be  gone  three  days  only.     Gage  can  spare  you." 

"I  don't  quite  see  what  use  I'd  be." 

"I  do.  I  want  you  to  talk  to  them  and  charm  them. 
I  can  organize.  Mrs.  Brownley  can  give  them  Republican 
gospel.  What  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  give  them  a  little 
of  the  charm  of  being  a  Republican.  Borrow  some  of 
Gage's  arguments  and  use  your  own  manner  in  giving 
them  and  the  result  will  be  what  I  want." 

"Don't  I  seem  rather  superfluous?" 

"We  couldn't  do  it  without  you.  Mrs.  Brownley  for 
name — you  for  charm — and  I'll  do  the  rest  of  the  work." 

Helen  looked  at  her  watch. 

"Gage  will  beat  me,"  she  declared,  "I'm  late  for  dinner 
again." 

ii 

The  train  bumped  along  for  several  hours.  Mrs. 
Brownley  read,  her  book  adjusted  at  a  proper  distance 


On  the  Stump  39 

from  her  leveled  eye-glasses.  Helen  and  Margaret  fell 
into  one  of  those  interminable  conversations  on  what 
was  worth  while  a  woman's  doing.  They  were  unexcited, 
but  at  Mohawk,  Mrs.  Thorstad  arrived  thirty  minutes 
early  at  the  railroad  station,  with  Mrs.  Watson's  car, 
which  she  had  commandeered.  Mrs.  Watson  had  also 
offered  lunch  but  at  the  last  minute  her  Hilda  had  become 
sick  and  thrown  her  into  such  confusion  that  Mrs. 
Thorstad,  brightly  rising  to  the  occasion,  had  taken  lunch 
upon  herself  and  even  now  Freda  was  putting  a  pan  of 
scalloped  potatoes  into  the  oven  and  anxiously  testing  the 
baking  ham. 

It  had  fallen  naturally  to  Mrs.  Thorstad  to  arrange 
the  meeting  in  Mohawk,  Mrs.  Brownley  writing  her  that 
she  need  not  consider  it  a  partisan  meeting,  that  its  object 
was  merely  educative,  to  explain  to  the  women  what  the 
Republican  party  meant.  And  Mrs.  Thorstad  had  few 
scruples  about  using  her  influence  to  get  as  large  a  group 
together  for  the  meeting  as  she  could.  To  have  these 
three  celebrities  for  a  whole  day  had  been  a  matter  of 
absorbing  thought  to  her.  They  were  to  have  a  luncheon 
at  her  home,  then  to  have  an  afternoon  meeting  at  the 
Library  and  a  further  meeting  in  the  evening.  Mrs. 
Thorstad  knew  she  could  get  a  crowd  out.  She  always 
could. 

Freda  had  not  minded  getting  lunch.  She  didn't  mind 
cooking,  especially  when  they  could  lay  themselves  out 
in  expense  as  was  considered  proper  to-day.  But  she 
hated  meeting  these  strange,  serious-minded  women. 
She  had  looked  in  the  glass  at  herself  and  decided  several 
times  that  she  was  altogether  out  of  place.  She  had 
tried  to  bribe  her  mother  into  pretending  she  was  a 
servant.  But  that  was  in  vain.  So  Freda  had  put  on 
the  black  taffeta  dress  which  she  had  made  from  a  Vogue 
pattern  and  was  hoping  they  had  missed  their  train. 


40  Spellbinders 

Coming  to  the  kitchen  door  her  mother  called  her  and 
she  went  in  reluctantly.  Then  she  saw  Helen  and  her 
face  lit  up  with  interest.  Her  mother  had  said  Mrs. 
Flandon  was  nice  looking  but  she  had  pictured  some 
earnest  looking  youngish  woman.  This — this  picture  of 
soft  gray  fur  and  dull  gold  hair !  She  was  like  a  maga- 
zine cover.  She  was  what  Freda  had  thought  existed 
but  what  she  couldn't  prove.     And  it  was  proven. 

Speeding  on  the  heels  of  her  delight  came  shyness. 
She  shook  hands  awkwardly,  trying  to  back  out  im- 
mediately.    But  Helen  did  not  let  her  go  at  once. 

"We  are  a  lot  of  trouble,  I'm  afraid,  Miss  Thorstad." 

"Oh,  no  you're  not.  It's  not  a  bit  of  trouble.  I'll 
have  lunch  ready  soon,  but  it  will  be  very  simple,"  said 
Freda. 

Her  voice,  thought  Freda,  is  like  her  clothes.  It's 
luxurious. 

The  lunch  was  ready  soon  and  to  the  visitors  it  was 
very  pleasant  as  they  went  into  the  little  dining-room. 
It  was  so  small  that  the  chairs  on  one  side  had  to  be 
careful  not  to  back  up  against  the  sideboard.  The  rug 
was  worn  to  thinness  but  the  straight  curtains  at  the 
windows,  which  did  not  shut  out  the  sun,  were  daffodil 
yellow  and  on  the  table  the  little  pottery  bowl  with  three 
blossoming  daffodils  picked  out  the  same  note  of  defiant 
sunlight  again.     Helen  looked  around  her  appreciatively. 

Freda  served  them  quietly,  slipping  into  her  own  chair, 
nearest  the  door  to  the  kitchen,  only  after  the  dishes  were 
all  in  place  and  every  one  eating.  She  took  her  own 
plate  from  her  mother  absently.  The  others  were  talking. 
She  listened  to  them,  the  throaty,  assured  voice  of  Mrs. 
Brownley,  Miss  Duffield's  clear,  definite  tones  and  the 
voice  of  Mrs.  Flandon,  with  a  note  of  laughter  in  it 
always,  as  if  she  mocked  at  the  things  she  said.  Yet 
always  with  light  laughter. 


On  the  Stump  41 

"Are  you  interested  in  all  this  political  business?" 
asked  Mrs.  Flandon  of  her,  suddenly. 

"No,"  said  Freda,  "Not  especially.  But  mother  is,  so 
I  hear  a  great  deal  of  it." 

Her  mother  laughed  a  little  reprovingly. 

"Freda  has  been  too  busy  to  give  these  things  time  and 
thought." 

"How  are  you  busy?    At  home?" 

She  let  her  mother  answer  that. 

"Freda  graduated  from  the  Normal  last  year.  We 
hoped  there  would  be  a  teaching  opening  here  for  her 
but  as  there  wasn't,  we  persuaded  her  to  stay  home  with 
us  and  take  a  little  special  work  at  the  Normal." 

Helen  kept  her  eyes  on  the  girl's  face.  Keenly  sensitive 
to  beauty  as  she  was,  she  had  felt  that  it  was  the  girl 
rather  than  the  mother  who  created  the  atmosphere  of 
this  house  with  which  she  felt  in  sympathy.  She  wanted 
to  talk  to  her.  As  the  meal  progressed  she  kept  her 
talking,  drew  her  out  little  by  little,  and  confidence  began 
to  come  back  to  Freda's  face  and  frankness  to  her  tongue. 

"She's  beautiful,"  thought  Helen,  "such  a  stunning 
creature." 

But  it  was  later  that  she  got  the  key  to  Freda. 

They  were  in  the  living  room  and  she  picked  up  some 
of  the  books  on  the  table.  They  interested  her.  It  was 
a  kind  of  reading  which  showed  some  taste  and  con- 
temporary interest.  There  was  the  last  thin  little  gray- 
brown  "Poetry,"  there  was  "The  Tree  of  Heaven,"  "Miss 
Lulu  Bett,"  Louis  Untermeyer's  poems.  Those  must 
be  Freda's.  There  was  also  what  you  might  expect  of 
Mrs.  Thorstad.  Side  by  side  lay  the  "Education  of 
Henry  Adams"  and  "The  Economic  Consequences  of  the 
Peace." 

"Of  course  the  mother  reads  those,"  thought  Helen, 
"after  she's  sure  they're  so  much  discussed  that  they're 


42  Spellbinders 

not  dangerous  any  longer.  But  the  mother  never  reads 
'Poetry.'  " 

"Your  daughter  likes  poetry  ?"  she  asked  Mrs.  Thor- 
stad. 

"She  reads  a  great  deal  of  it.  I  wish  I  could  make 
her  like  more  solid  things.     But  of  course  she's  young." 

Mrs.  Flandon  went  out  to  the  kitchen  where  Freda 
was  vigorously  clearing  up. 

"You're  doing  all  the  work,"  she  protested. 

"Very  sketchily,"  confessed  Freda,  "I  can  cook  better 
than  I  clear  up,  mother  tells  me." 

"That  may  be  a  virtue,"  said  Helen.  She  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  door,  watching  Freda. 

"Who  reads  poetry  with  you  ?" 

"Father — sometimes.  Oh,  you  mustn't  think  because 
you  see  some  things  I'm  reading  that  I'm  that  sort.  I'm 
not  at  all.  I'm  really  not  clever  especially.  I  just  like 
things.     All  kinds  of  things." 

"But  what  kinds?" 

"Just  so  they  are  alive,  that's  all  I  care.  So  I  scatter — 
awfully.  I  can't  get  very  much  worked  up  about  women 
in  politics.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  women  were  wasting  a 
lot  of  time  sometimes." 

"You  are  like  me — a  natural  born  dilettante." 

"Are  you  that?"  asked  Freda.  Her  shyness  had  gone. 
Here  was  some  one  to  whom  she  could  talk. 

"I'm  afraid  I  am.  I  like  things  just  as  you  do — if 
they're  alive.  It's  a  bad  way  to  be.  It's  hard  to  con- 
centrate because  some  new  beautiful  thing  or  emotion 
keeps  dragging  you  off  and  destroys  your  continuity. 
And  in  this  world  of  earnest  women — " 

"You  criticize  yourself.  You  feel  that  you  don't 
measure  up  to  the  women  who  do  things.  I  know.  But 
don't  you  think,  Mrs.  Flandon,  that  something's  being 
lost  somewhere?     Aren't  women  losing — oh,  the  quality 


On  the  Stump  43 

that  made  poets  write  such  things  about  them — I  don't 
know,  it's  partly  physical — they  aren't  relaxed — " 

She  stood,  pouring  her  words  out  in  unfinished  phrases 
as  if  trying  desperately  to  make  a  confession  or  ask  her 
questions  before  anything  interrupted,  her  face  lit  up 
with  eagerness,  its  fine,  unfinished  beauty  diffused  with 
half- felt  desires.  As  she  stopped,  Helen  let  her  stop, 
only  nodding. 

"I  know  what  you  mean.  You're  right.  It's  all  mixed 
up.  It's  what  is  puzzling  the  men  too.  We  must  talk, 
my  dear." 

Helen  was  quite  honest  about  that.  She  meant  to 
talk  with  Freda.  But  there  was  no  time  that  afternoon. 
In  the  Library  club-room,  crowded  with  women  who  had 
come  at  Mrs.  Thorstad's  bidding  for  a  "fresh  inspir- 
ation," Helen  found  her  hands  full.  She  gave  her  talk, 
toning  it  up  a  bit  because  she  saw  that  Freda  was 
expecting  things  of  her  and  so  wandering  off  the  point 
a  little.  But  the  charm  that  Margaret  wanted  was  in 
action  and  Margaret,  quickly  sensing  the  possibilities  of 
Mrs.  Thorstad's  town,  settled  down  to  some  thorough 
organization  work. 

It  was  after  the  meeting  that  night  that  Helen  saw 
Freda  again.  And  then  not  in  the  hall.  She  had  noticed 
the  girl  slip  out  after  her  own  talk,  as  Mrs.  Brownley 
rose  to  "address"  the  meeting,  and  wondered  where  she 
was  going.  To  her  discomfiture  she  had  found  that  she 
was  billeted  on  Mrs.  Watson  for  the  night  as  befitted 
their  respective  social  dignities,  and  that  Margaret  was 
to  spend  the  night  at  the  Thorstad  house. 

But  it  was  from  Mrs.  Watson's  spare  room  window 
that  she  saw  Freda. 

The  skating  rink,  a  square  of  land,  flooded  with  water 
and  frozen,  lay  below.  As  she  went  to  pull  down  the 
shade  in  her  bed-room  window — she  had  escaped  from 


44  Spellbinders 

Mrs.  Watson  as  promptly  as  possible — Helen's  eyes  fell 
on  the  skaters,  skimming  swiftly  about  under  arc  lights 
which,  flickering  bright  and  then  dim,  made  the  scene 
beautiful.  And  then  she  saw  Freda.  She  was  wearing 
the  red  tam-o'-shanter  which  Mrs.  Flandon  had  already 
seen  and  a  short  red  mackinaw  and  as  she  flashed  past 
under  the  light,  it  was  unmistakably  she — not  alone. 
There  was  a  young  man  with  her. 

Helen  watched  her  come  and  go,  hands  crossed  with  her 
partner,  watched  the  swing  of  her  graceful  body  as  it 
swayed  so  easily  towards  the  man's  and  was  in  perfect 
tune  with  it. 

"That's  one  way  you  get  the  alive  and  beautiful,  is 
it?"  thought  Helen. 

Then,  after  a  little,  by  some  signal,  the  rink  was 
declared  closed.  The  skaters,  at  the  sides  of  the  rink,  sat 
on  little  benches  and  took  off  their  skates.  The  young 
man  knelt  beside  Freda  and  loosened  the  straps,  a  pretty 
bit  of  gallantry  in  the  moonlight. 

He  had  her  arm.  They  were  going  home,  walking  a 
little  more  close  to  each  other  than  was  necessary,  looking 
up,  bending  down.  Helen  could  almost  feel  what  they 
were  feeling,  excitement,  vigor,  intimacy.  A  little  shiver 
went  over  her  as  she  pulled  down  the  shade  at  last  and 
looked  around  at  the  walls  with  their  brown  scrolls  and 
mottoed  injunction  to 

"Sleep  sweetly  in  this  quiet  room, 
Oh,  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art." 


T 


CHAPTER  IV, 

CITY   MICE 


HE  dismay  of  the  young  Brownleys  was  as  great 
as  that  of  Freda.  But  their  indomitable  mothers 
won. 

"But,  mother,,,  cried  Allison  Brownley,  "you  don't 
mean  you'd  ask  that — that  little  Swede  girl  here  to  the 
house?  For  a  month?  Why,  I  should  think  you'd  see 
how  impossible  that  is.  We  can't  treat  her  as  a  servant, 
can  we?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Brownley,  "you  can't — not  at  all. 
She's  a  very  clever  girl — Normal  School  graduate." 

Allison  sank  on  a  divan,  her  short  skirts  shorter  than 
ever  in  her  abandonment,  her  face  a  picture  of  horrified 
dismay. 

"Normal  School — you  know  what  they  are!  Pimples 
and  plaid  skirts  two  inches  from  the  ground, — China  silk 
white  waists.  Oh,  mother  dear,  it's  very  sweet  of  you 
to  think  of  her,  but  it  couldn't  be  done.  What  would  we 
do  with  her?  Why,  the  days  are  just  full!  All  kinds 
of  things  planned  now  that  Easter's  over.  We  couldn't 
take  her  about,  and  we  couldn't  leave  her  at  home.  The 
Brownley  girls  and  their  little  Swede  friend !  Mother,  I 
do  think  you  ought  to  keep  politics  out  of  the  home." 

Barbara  joined  in  now.  That  was  always  her  policy. 
To  let  Allie  state  the  case  and  get  excited  over  it  and  then 
to  go  after  her  mother  reasonably  if  her  mother  didn't 

45 


46  Spellbinders 

give  in.  She  was  a  more  languorous  type  than  Allie. 
"Bed-room  eyes"  one  of  the  boys  had  said,  at  the  height 
of  his  puppy  wit. 

"If  you  had  to  ask  them,  mother,  Lent  would  have 
been  the  time.  It  just  can't  be  managed  now.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  I've  practically  asked  Delia  Underwood  to 
spend  three  weeks  here."  That  was  a  lie  and  she  knew 
her  mother  would  know  it,  but  it  gave  her  mother  a 
graceful  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

But  unfortunately  Mrs.  Brownley  did  not  seem  to  be 
looking  for  loop-holes.  She  sat  serenely  at  her  desk, 
her  eye-glasses  poised  upon  the  bills  she  was  auditing. 

"I  think  you  will  like  Miss  Thorstad,"  she  answered, 
ignoring  all  the  protests.  "You  see  it's  really  quite 
important  for  me  to  have  her  here.  The  mother  is  a 
very  clever  little  woman  and  with  a  possible  political 
future.  Miss  Duffield  thinks  very  highly  of  her.  While 
we  are  doing  this  active  campaign  work  she  will  be 
invaluable  here  in  the  city.  She's  a  good  organizer — 
and  she's  a  plain  woman.  She  can  handle  plain  women, 
Miss  Duffield  insists,  better  than  we  can.  I  wish  you 
girls  would  understand  that  there  is  a  great  deal  involved 
in  this  campaign.  If  we  stand  well  out  here  it  will  be 
important  for  the  district — in  Washington." 

"Yes,  mother — but  why  the  daughter?" 

"For  the  simple  reason  that  Mrs.  Thorstad  said  she 
didn't  like  to  leave  her  at  home  alone.  It  put  me  in  the 
position  of  having  to  ask  her.  She  is,  as  I  remember, 
a  pretty  well-appearing  girl.  Mrs.  Flandon,  whom  you 
admire  so  much,  Allie,  was  immensely  taken  with  her. 
At  any  rate,  they  have  been  asked,  they  will  accept  and 
they  arrive  next  week." 

Allie  looked  dark. 

"Well,  mother,"  she  said,  with  a  fair  imitation  of  her 
mother's  tone,  "if  you  expect  me  to  give  up  everything 


City  Mice  47 

for  the  sake  of  this  little  Swede,  you're  mistaken.  The 
men  will  just  howl  when  they  see  her." 

"Cheer  up,  Allie,,,  said  Barbara,  "they  may  fall  in  love 
with  her.  Brunhilde,  you  know — and  all  of  that.  I 
think  it's  a  shame,  mother." 

The  girls  looked  at  each  other.  They  weren't  ordinari- 
ly allies,  but  this  mess  was  one  they  both  would  have  to 
worry  over.     Their  mother  rose. 

"Of  course,  girls,"  she  said,  "it  is  an  inconvenience. 
But  it's  a  good  thing  to  do.  It  means  more  than  you  may 
guess.  Be  nice  to  Miss  Thorstad  and  you'll  not  be  sorry. 
It  might  mean  that  platinum  bracelet  for  you,  Barbara, 
and  for  Allie— " 

"Mother,"  exclaimed  Allie,  "if  I'm  an  angel  to  your 
little  Swede  would  you  let  me  have  a  new  runabout — a 
Pierce,  painted  any  color  I  like?" 

Her  mother  merely  smiled  at  her  but  Allie  knew  her 
claim  was  good.  She  turned  to  her  sister  as  her  mother 
left  the  room. 

"She's  going  to  do  it,  Bobbie,  and  we  might  just  as 
well  get  something  out  of  it,  I'll  tell  the  girls  I'm  getting 
my  new  car  that  way  and  they'll  all  help.  We'll  give 
little  Miss  Olson  the  time  of  her  life." 

"You  get  more  out  of  it  than  I  do,  I  notice."  Barbara 
was  inspecting  herself  in  the  mirror  of  her  vanity  case 
from  which  she  allowed  nothing  except  sleep  to  separate 
her. 

"That's  all  right,  Bob.  I'll  do  most  of  the  heavy  work, 
I'll  bet." 

"I  shan't  be  able  to  do  much,  I'll  tell  you  that.  Miss 
Burns  wants  me  for  fittings  every  day  next  week  and  I've 
a  lot  of  dates,  for  evenings." 

"Ted's  giving  you  quite  a  rush,  isn't  he  darling?  Do 
you  think  he's  landed  this  time  or  is  it  just  that  it's  your 
turn?" 


48  Spellbinders 

Barbara  did  not  blush.  She  looked  straight  at  her 
sister,  her  slim  face  disgusted. 

"Pretty  raw,  aren't  you?  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  think 
he  could  be  landed  if  I  had  the  slightest  desire  to  do  it. 
I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  want  him." 

Allie  grinned. 

"That's  all  right.  That's  what  they  all  say,  all  the 
ones  he  gives  a  rush  and  leaves  lamenting.  I  am  sort  of 
surprised  that  you'd  fall  for  him  so  hard.  Even  if  he 
is  the  ideal  lover,  every  one  who  isn't  cross-eyed  knows 
how  he  does  it.     I'd  like  a  little  more  originality,  myself." 

"I  tell  you  this,  Allie.  That  man  has  been  misunder- 
stood. Because  he's  so  rich  and  good  looking  every  one's 
chased  after  him  and  then  when  he  was  decently  civil 
they've  taken  advantage  of  him  by  spreading  stories  about 
his  flirtations.     He's  told  me  some  things  about  girls — " 

"Dirty  cad,"  said  Allie,  cheerfully. 

"All  right,  if  you  want  to  be  insulting,  I  won't  talk  to 
you." 

"Well,  tell  me  what  he  said.  I  won't  think  about  his 
being  a  dirty  cad  until  afterwards." 

What  humor  there  was  was  lost  on  Barbara. 

"I  don't  care  to  talk  any  more  about  him." 

Barbara  looked  at  her  watch  to  conclude  matters. 

"And  by  the  way,  Allie,  mother  said  I  could  use  the 
limousine.  I've  got  a  lot  of  things  to  do  and  I'll  need 
Chester  all  afternoon.  Mrs.  Watts  is  taking  mother  to 
the  Morley  reception  and  I'm  calling  for  her.  She  said 
you  could  have  the  electric." 

"My  God !"  said  Allie.  "Why  doesn't  she  offer  me  a 
hearse?  Thanks,  I'd  sooner  take  old  1898  out  again. 
And  think  about  that  Pierce  I'm  going  to  earn." 

She  was  out  of  the  room  in  a  minute,  flying  up  the 
stairs,  some  grotesque  words  to  a  dance  tune  floating 
behind  her.     The  Packard  runabout,  "old   1898,"  was 


City  Mice  49 

humming  down  the  garage  drive  half  an  hour  later. 
Stopping  at  two  houses  impressive  as  her  own,  she  regaled 
the  girls  who  were  her  friends  with  accounts  of  the 
"Swedish  invasion."  It  was  a  good  story,  especially  with 
the  promise  of  the  reward  tacked  on  the  end. 


But  it  was  three  days  before  Freda  had  capitulated. 
Her  first  reaction  had  been  an  angry  shame  at  her 
mother's  inclusion  of  her  in  her  own  invitation.  She  had 
simply  flatly  refused  to  go.  A  little  later  it  was  possible 
to  regard  the  business  with  some  humor,  and  the  shame 
had  lost  its  sting.  She  had  never  known  those  people 
anyhow — never  would  know  them — it  didn't  matter  what 
they  thought.  When  she  saw  that  the  matter  was  not 
ended  and  sensed  the  depth  of  determination  in  her 
mother's  mind  that  her  daughter  should  go  with  her  to 
the  Brownley's  she  tried  to  be  more  definite  even  than 
before  in  her  refusal.  Her  mother  did  not  seem  to  hear 
her.  She  insisted  on  keeping  the  subject  open,  never 
admitting  for  a  minute  that  it  was  or  could  be  closed. 
She  dwelt  endlessly  on  the  advantages  of  the  visit — on 
the  fact  that  the  chance  for  Freda  had  come  at  last. 

"Chance !"  stormed  Freda,  "why  it  isn't  a  chance  to  do 
anything  except  sponge  on  a  few  rich  people  whom  I've 
never  seen  before  in  my  life.  You  don't  really  suppose, 
mother,  that  I'd  go  down  there  and  let  those  Brownley 
girls  make  my  life  miserable.  You  don't  seem  to  realize, 
mother,  that  those  two  Brownleys  are  a  very  gay  lot. 
They  must  be  about  my  age — the  older  one  anyway. 
Why,  I  wouldn't  think  of  it.  What  on  earth  would  I  do? 
What  on  earth  would  I  wear?  What  would  I  say? 
What  on  earth  would  I  be  there  anyhow?  I'm  no 
politician.     I'm  not  helping  Mrs.  Brownley  strengthen 


50  Spellbinders 

her  fences  or  anything.  If  you  ask  me,  mother,  I 
wouldn't  think  of  going  if  I  were  you.  Don't  you  know 
she's  just  making  a  play  to  the  gallery  by  having  you? 
Probably  bragging  about  her  great  sense  of  democracy! 
Why,  mother !" 

"You  don't  seem  to  realize," — Mrs.  Thorstad  always 
began  that  way  by  assuming  that  you  had  missed  her 
point,  a  point  which  was  and  always  would  be  in  accord 
with  Right  Living  and  Democracy  and  the  Family  and 
the  Home,  "that  these  social  distinctions  are  of  no  value 
in  my  estimation.     In  this  great  country — " 

Freda  led  her  mother  away  from  the  brink  of  oratory. 

"Look  here,"  she  said,  "if  they  aren't  a  lot  more 
important  than  we  are — if  you  don't  think  they  are — what 
is  this  wonderful  chance  you  are  talking  about?" 

Just  at  what  point  Freda  gave  in,  just  at  what  point 
she  felt  that  the  possibilities  of  her  trip  outweighed  its 
impossibilities  she  did  not  know.  It  was  certain  that  the 
young  Brownleys  gave  way  to  no  noisier  public  mockery 
of  the  proposed  visit  than  did  Freda.  She  was  even  a 
little  shrill.  She  told  everybody  how  she  "hated  it,"  how 
she  was  going  along  to  the  homes  of  the  idle  rich  to 
chaperon  her  mother,  that  she  was  "breaking  into  high 
society,"  that  she  was  gathering  material  for  a  book  on 
"how  the  other  half  lives,"  that  she  would  probably  be 
mistaken  for  a  housemaid  and  asked  to  dust  the  bed- 
rooms, that  mother  was  trying  to  "marry  her  off,"  that 
she  "didn't  have  an  idea  what  to  wear."  She  talked  to 
almost  every  one  she  met,  somewhat  unnecessarily,  some- 
what defiantly,  as  if  determined  to  let  any  one  know  about 
her  reasons  for  going,  as  if  defending  herself  against  any 
accusations  concerning  her  motive  in  making  such  a  visit, 
perhaps  making  sure  that  no  later  discomfiture  on  her 
own  part  could  be  made  more  severe  by  any  suspicion 
of  pleasurable  anticipation. 


City  Mice  51 

She  planned  her  clothes  for  St.  Pierre  with  mocking  but 
intense  deliberation.  A  dark  blue  tricotine  dress — she 
bought  that  at  the  ladies'  specialty  shop  and  taking  it 
home  ripped  off  all  the  trimming  substituting  the  flattest 
and  darkest  of  braid.  That  was  safe,  she  knew.  She 
might  not  be  startling  but  she  would  be  inoffensive,  she 
told  her  mother.  There  was  a  dress  made  by  Miss  Peter- 
son, who  sewed  by  the  day,  from  a  remnant  of  bronze 
georgette,  and  half  shamefacedly  Freda  came  home  one 
night  with  a  piece  of  flame  colored  satin  and  made  it 
herself  into  a  gown  which  hung  from  the  shoulders  very 
straightly  and  was  caught  at  the  waist  with  silver  cord 
(from  the  drapery  department).  And  there  was  an 
evening  dress  at  which  Freda  scoffed  but  she  and  Miss 
Peterson  spent  some  fascinated  hours  over  it,  making 
pale  green  taffetas  and  tulle  fit  her  lovely  shoulders. 

"Though  what  I'm  getting  these  clothes  for  is  a 
mystery  to  me,"  grumbled  Freda.  "They  probably 
won't  even  ask  me  to  go  out.  Probably  suggest  that  I 
eat  with  the  servants." 

Yet  she  tried  on  the  evening  dress  in  the  privacy  of 
her  room  parading  before  her  bureau  mirror,  which  could 
not  be  induced  to  show  both  halves  of  her  at  once.  And 
as  she  looked  in  the  glass  there  came  back  the  reflection 
of  a  girl  a  little  flushed,  excited,  eager,  as  if  in  spite  of 
all  her  mockery  there  was  a  dream  that  she  would  conquer 
unknown  people  and  things — a  hope  that  wonders  were 
about  to  happen. 

Never  was  there  a  trace  of  that  before  her  mother. 
Having  agreed  to  go,  Freda  was,  on  the  whole,  com- 
plaisant, but  on  principle  unenthusiastic. 

Her  father  gave  her  two  hundred  dollars  the  night 
before  she  went  away.  Mrs.  Thorstad  was  at  a  neigh- 
bor's house  and  the  gift  was  made  in  her  absence  without 
comment  on  that  fact.     Freda,  whose  idea  of  a  sizable 


52  Spellbinders 

check  for  her  spending  money  was  five  dollars  and  of  an 
exceptionally  large  one,  ten,  gasped. 

"But  what  do  I  need  this  for?" 

"You'll  find  ways,  my  dear.  It's — for  some  of  the 
little  things  which  these  other  young  ladies  may  have  and 
you  may  lack.     To  put  you  at  ease." 

"Yes,  but  it's  too  much,  father  dear.  For  three  or 
four  weeks.     You  can't  possibly  afford  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  my  dear.  Only  try  to  be  happy,  won't  you? 
Remember  that  it's  always  worth  while  to  learn  and  that 
there  are  very  few  people  in  the  world  who  aren't  friendly 
by  nature." 

That  thought  carried  Freda  through  the  next  twenty- 
four  hours,  beginning  with  worry  when  she  got  on  the 
train  as  to  whether  they  were  expecting  her  after  all, 
through  a  flurry  of  excitement  at  the  sense  of  "city"  in 
St.  Pierre,  the  luxury  of  the  limousine  which  had  been 
sent  to  meet  them,  through  the  embarrassment  of  hearing 
her  mother  begin  to  orate  in  a  mild  fashion  on  the  beauty 
of  Mrs.  Brownley's  home  and  the  "real  home  spirit" 
which  she  felt  in  it.  Freda  felt  sure  that  such  conversa- 
tion was  not  only  out  of  place  but  bad  taste  anyway.  She 
was  divided  between  a  desire  to  carry  the  visit  off 
properly,  showing  the  Brownleys  that  she  was  not  gauche 
and  stupid,  and  an  impulse  to  stalk  through  the  days 
coldly,  showing  her  disdain  for  mere  material  things  and 
the  impossibility  of  impressing  her.  Yet  the  deep  soft- 
ness of  the  hall  rugs,  the  broad  noiseless  stair  carpets, 
the  glimpses  through  doorways  into  long  quiet  rooms 
seemingly  full  of  softly  upholstered  furniture,  lamps  with 
wonderfully  colored  shades,  pictures  which  had  deep  rich 
colors  like  the  colors  in  the  rugs,  made  her  eyes  shine, 
her  color  heighten. 

Mrs.  Brownley  met  them  at  the  house  and  took  them 
to  their  rooms  herself.     Mrs.  Thorstad  had  a  big  pleasant 


City  Mice  53 

room  in  a  wing  of  the  house  given  up  to  guest  chambers 
and  Freda's  was  a  small  one  connected  with  it. 

"My  daughters  are  looking  forward  so  much  to  meeting 
you,"  Mrs.  Brownley  said  easily  to  Freda.  "They  are 
out  just  now,  but  when  you  come  down  for  dinner  they 
will  be  home.  We  usually  dine  at  seven,  Mrs.  Thorstad. 
It  isn't  at  all  necessary  to  dress." 

"She  is  nice,  isn't  she  ?"  said  Freda,  as  the  door  closed 
after  their  hostess,  "maybe  it  won't  be  so  bad.  Anyway, 
all  experience  is  good.  Glad  I  remember  that  much 
Nietzsche.    It  often  helps." 

Mrs.  Thorstad  put  her  trim  little  hat  on  the  closet 
shelf  and  began  to  unpack  her  suit-case.  Freda  explored 
the  bath. 

"It's  like  a  movie,"  she  came  back  to  say,  "I  feel  just 
like  the  second  reel  when  the  heroine  is  seduced  by  luxury 
into  giving  herself — " 

"Freda!" 

"Truly  I  do.  She  always  takes  a  look  into  the  closet  at 
rows  of  clothes  and  closes  the  door  virtuously,  gazes 
rapturously  at  the  chaise  longue  all  lumpy  with  pillows 
and  stiffens  herself.  But  she  never  can  resist  the  look 
into  the  bath  room — monogramed  towels,  scented  soap, 
bath  salts.  I  know  just  exactly  how  the  poor  girls  feel. 
Certain  kinds  of  baths  are  for  cleanliness — others  make 
a  lady  out  of  a  sow's  ear — you  know." 

"Why  are  you  wearing  that  dress?"  asked  her  mother, 
rousing  from  her  nap  fifteen  minutes  later.  "I  was 
going  down  in  my  waist  and  skirt." 

"Mother — you  can't.  That  wasn't  what  she  meant  by 
not  dressing.  She  meant  not  evening  dress.  You'll  have 
to  put  on  your  blue  silk." 

"I  wanted  to  save  that  for  afternoon  affairs." 

"You  won't  wear  it  put  to-night.  Come,  mother,  I'll 
hook  you  up." 


54  Spellbinders 

They  were  down  at  five  minutes  before  seven.  Barbara 
was  not  visible  but  Allie  and  her  mother  and  father  waited 
for  them  in  the  drawing-room.  Crossing  the  threshold 
of  that  room  seemed  to  take  all  Freda's  courage.  If  her 
mother  had  not  been  so  absorbed  in  thinking  of  the  way 
she  meant  to  interest  Mr.  Brownley  in  her  career,  she 
would  have  heard  the  quick  little  catch  of  breath  in 
Freda's  throat  as  she  came  through  the  velvet  curtains 
behind  her.  She  did  see  the  quickened  interest  on  Allie's 
face  and  Mrs.  Brownley's  measured  glance  of  approval 
at  Freda.  Freda  had  been  right.  The  Brownleys  were 
dressed  for  dinner,  quite  elaborately  it  seemed  to  her. 
She  made  no  note  of  the  discrimination  in  evening  clothes, 
that  Mrs.  Brownley's  velvet  dress  was  high  at  the  neck 
and  Mr.  Brownley's  tie  black  instead  of  white.  Allie 
came  forward  with  her  rough  and  tumble  welcome, 
shaking  hands  casually  with  Mrs.  Thorstad  and  frankly 
admiring  Freda.  Allie  herself  had  dressed  in  a  hurry 
and  was  noticeable  chiefly  for  the  high  spots  of  rouge  on 
each  cheek. 

"Sorry  I  wasn't  home  when  you  came.  I  had  to  go  to 
a  luncheon  and  then  to  the  theater.  Couldn't  get  out  of 
it.  It  was  a  party  for  a  friend  of  mine  who  is  to  be 
married  and  I'm  in  the  bridal  party,  you  see.  She's  an 
awfully  nice  girl — marrying  the  most  awful  lemon  you 
ever  saw." 

Freda  knew  all  about  that  marriage.  It  had  been 
heralded  even  in  Mohawk.  Gratia  Allen  and  Peter 
Ward.     But  she  gave  no  sign  of  knowing  about  it. 

"Isn't  it  funny,"  she  answered,  getting  Allie's  note  with 
amazing  accuracy,  "how  often  that  happens?  The  nicest 
girls  get  the  queerest  men." 

"Not  enough  decent  men  to  go  around  any  more." 

So  it  was  all  right  until  Barbara  came  in.  A  little 
party  gathered  in  the  meantime — the  Gage  Flandons, 


City  Mice  55 

and  Margaret  Duffield  with  Walter  Carpenter.  Margaret 
was  beginning  to  be  asked  as  a  dinner  companion  for 
Walter  fairly  often  now.  And  as  a  concession  to  the 
young  people  Mrs.  Brownley  had  asked  three  young  men, 
Ted  Smillie  and  the  Bates  boys,  who  traveled  in  pairs, 
Allie  always  said.  They  were  all  there  when  Barbara 
came  in.  Obviously  she  had  some  one,  either  the  un- 
known guest  or  her  friend  Ted,  in  mind  when  she  dressed, 
for  she  was  perfectly  done.  Smoothly  marcelled  hair, 
black  lace  dress  carrying  out  the  latest  vagaries  in  fashion, 
black  slippers  with  jeweled  buckles.  As  she  gave  her 
hand  to  Freda  with  the  smile  which  held  a  faint  hint  of 
condescension,  Freda  bent  her  knuckles  to  hide  the  nail 
she  had  torn  yesterday  closing  the  trunk.  She  felt  over 
dressed,  obvious,  a  splash  of  ugly  color.  Ted  had  been 
talking  to  her  but  by  a  simple  assumption  that  Freda 
could  have  nothing  of  interest  to  say,  Barbara  took  up 
the  thread  of  talk  with  him,  speaking  of  incidents,  people 
that  were  unknown  to  Freda.  The  Bates  boys  were 
talking  to  Allie.  Freda  stood  alone  for  a  moment — an 
interminable  awkward  moment,  in  which  no  one  seemed 
to  notice  her.  Then  Gage  Flandon  crossed  to  her  side 
and  she  gave  him  a  smile  which  made  him  her  friend  at 
once,  a  smile  of  utter  gratitude  without  a  trace  of  pose. 

"How  nice  of  you/'  she  said,  simply,  "to  come  to  talk 
to  me.     I  feel  so  strange." 

"My  wife  says  you've  never  met  any  of  us  before.  No 
wonder." 

"It  isn't  just  that.  I'm  a  little  afraid  I'm  here  without 
much  reason.  Mother  brought  me  but  Fm  not  a  political 
woman  and  I'm  not" — with  a  rueful  little  glance  at 
Barbara — "a  society  girl  at  all.  I'm  afraid  I'll  be  in 
everybody's  way." 

She  said  it  without  any  coquetry  and  it  came  out  clearly 
so — as  the  plain  little  worry  it  was.     Gage,  who  had 


56  Spellbinders 

found  himself  a  little  touched  by  the  obvious  situation  of 
the  girl  felt  further  attracted  by  her  frankness.  She 
seemed  an  unspoiled,  handsome  person.  That  was  what 
Helen  had  told  him,  but  he  had  grown  so  used  to  sophisti- 
cation and  measured  innocence  that  he  had  not  expected 
anything  from  the  daughter  of  this  little  political  speaker. 
He  had  come  to  size  up  Mrs.  Thorstad,  for  her  name  had 
been  presented  as  a  possibility  in  a  discussion  with  some 
of  his  own  friends  as  they  went  over  the  matter  of 
recognizing  women  in  the  political  field.  As  Mrs.  Thor- 
stad gave  her  hand  to  him  he  had  seen  what  he  came  to 
see.  She  had  brains.  She  had  the  politician's  smile. 
She  could  be  used — and  doubtless  managed  as  far  as 
was  necessary.  But  the  daughter  was  different.  He 
liked  that  dress  she  was  wearing.  It  showed  her  slim- 
ness,  suppleness,  but  it  didn't  make  her  indecent  like  that 
lace  thing  on  Bob  Brownley. 

"I  often  feel  like  that,"  he  answered  her,  "I'm  not 
much  of  a  society  person  either  and  I  can't  keep  up  with 
these  wonderful  women  we're  seeing  everywhere. 
Women  with  a  lot  of  brains  frighten  me." 

Idle  talk,  with  his  real,  little  prejudice  back  it,  which 
Freda  by  accident  uncovered  immediately.  She  was 
talking  against  time  so  he  would  not  leave  her  unguarded, 
and  it  was  chance  that  she  pleased  him  so  much. 
jr  "Women  have  a  lot  of  brains  now,"  she  said,  "in 
politics  and — society  too,  I  suppose.  But  I  wonder  if 
we  weren't  more  attractive  when  we  weren't  quite  so 
brilliant.  I  don't  mean  when  we  had  huge  families  and 
did  the  washing  and  made  the  butter.  I  mean  when  we 
were  more  romantic  and  not  quite  so — " 

She  stumbled  a  little.  She  was  conscious  of  being 
historically  at  sea,  vague  in  her  definition  of  romance. 
But  she  had  said  that  several  times  before  and  it  came 


City  Mice  57 

easily  to  her  tongue.  She  stopped,  feeling  awkward 
and  then  amazed  at  Mr.  Flandon's  enthusiasm. 

"That's  it!"  he  exclaimed,  "that's  what  I  miss. 
Women  have  stopped  being  romantic.  They've  done 
worse.  They've  penetrated  our  souls  and  dug  out  the 
romance  and  analyzed  it  among  themselves." 

But  she  could  not  answer.  Some  one  announced 
dinner  and  Freda  moved  with  the  rest  to  get  her  first 
enchanted  sight  of  the  Brownley  dining  table  with  its 
wedgewood  vases  full  of  roses  and  narcissus,  its  shining 
perfection  of  detail. 

She  was  near  her  hostess'  end  of  the  table,  Mr.  Flandon 
at  her  left  and  one  of  the  Bates  boys  at  her  right.  Mrs. 
Brownley  had  wanted  to  talk  to  Gage  and  had  decided, 
as  she  placed  the  cards,  that  Freda  would  take  as  little  of 
his  attention  as  any  one  present.  She  started  in  after 
the  consomme  to  find  out  what  Gage  thought  about  the 
Republican  committee.  It  was  most  unsatisfactory  for 
he  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  telling  something  to  Miss 
Thorstad  and  gave  answers  to  his  hostess  as  if  his  mind 
were  on  something  else.  As  for  Gage,  he  was  talking 
more  animatedly  than  he  had  talked  to  any  woman  in 
years,  thought  his  wife,  watching  him. 

"What  heresy  is  my  husband  pouring  into  your  ears, 
Miss  Thorstad?"  she  asked,  leaning  forward. 

Freda  blushed  a  little  as  the  attention  turned  to  her. 

"He  is  telling  me  the  arguments  I've  been  wanting  to 
hear — against  being  a  perfectly  modern  woman." 

"Proselytizing!"  said  Margaret.  "Wait  a  bit,  Miss 
Thorstad.     Let  me  get  the  other  ear  after  dinner." 

"Freda  likes  to  tease,"  explained  her  mother  to  their 
host. 

Barbara  looked  a  little  disdainful,  making  some 
remark  sotto  voce  to  Ted.     But  he  was  not  listening. 


58  Spellbinders 

Freda  had,  in  the  rise  of  her  spirits,  given  him  a  smile 
across  the  table,  the  kind  of  come-there  smile  she  gave 
David  Grant  of  Mohawk  when  she  wanted  to  skate  with 
him  or  dance  with  him — a  smile  of  perfectly  frank  allure. 
He  returned  it  with  interest. 

Helen  did  not  follow  up  her  remark.  It  had  been 
scattered  in  the  comments.  Gage  caught  her  eye  and  she 
gave  him  a  look  which  said,  "I  told  you  there  was  some- 
thing in  that  girl."  Gage  immediately  wanted  to  leave 
the  table  and  tell  Helen  all  about  it.  But  Mrs.  Brownley 
wanted  to  know  something  again.     He  turned  to  her. 

It  was  fairly  easy  for  Freda  after  all,  in  spite  of  Bar- 
bara, whose  measuring  eyes  made  her  nervous  whenever 
they  were  turned  on  her.  She  had  a  difficult  time  con- 
cealing the  broken  finger-nail  and  she  was  not  at  all  sure 
whether  to  lift  the  finger  bowl  off  the  fruit  plate  with 
the  lace  doily  or  to  leave  the  doily.  Otherwise  there 
were  no  great  difficulties.  There  was  a  bad  moment  after 
dinner  when  it  became  clear  to  her  that  there  was  some 
altercation  among  the  young  people  which  concerned  her. 
She  could  not  guess  what  it  was,  but  she  saw  Allie  and 
Barbara  in  heated  conclave.  Then,  with  a  little  toss  of 
her  head,  Allie  came  to  her. 

"We  thought  that  you  and  I  and  Fred  and  Tony  would 
go  down  to  the  Majestic.  We  had  six  tickets  but  Bob 
seems  to  think  she  and  Ted  have  another  date." 

And  then  Ted  ruined  things.  He  turned  from  where 
he  and  Tony  Bates  were  smoking  by  the  mantelpiece 
and  strolled  over  to  Freda. 

"We're  going  to  the  Majestic — and  I'm  going  to  sit 
next  to  you,"  he  announced. 


City  Mice  59 

in 

The  Majestic  was  a  vaudeville  house,  presenting  its 
seven  acts  weekly  for  the  delectation  of  its  patrons, 
servant  girls,  business  men,  impecunious  boys  in  the 
gallery,  suburbanites,  shop  girls  with  their  young  men, 
traveling  men,  idle  people,  parties  of  young  people  like 
the  Brownley  girls,  one  of  those  heterogeneous  crowds 
that  a  dollar  and  a  half  price  for  a  best  seat  can  bring 
in  America.  When  the  young  Brownleys  arrived,  the 
acrobatic  act  which  led  the  bill  was  over  and  the  two 
poorest  comedians,  put  on  near  the  beginning  of  the  bill 
before  the  audience  grew  too  wearily  critical,  were  doing 
a  buck  and  wing  dance  to  the  accompaniment  of  some 
quite  ununderstandable  words. 

With  a  great  deal  of  noise  and  mysterious  laughter 
the  late  arrivals  became  seated  finally,  taking  their  places 
with  the  lack  of  consideration  for  the  people  behind  them 
which  was  characteristic  of  their  arrogance,  making 
audible  and  derogatory  comments  about  the  act  on  the 
stage  and  curiously  enough  not  seeming  to  anger  any 
one.  The  girls  with  their  fur  coats,  hatless,  well  dressed 
hair,  the  sleek  dinner  coated  young  men  interested  the 
people  around  them  far  more  than  they  bothered  them 
by  their  noisiness. 

They  left  during  the  last  act  and  before  the  moving 
picture  of  "Current  Events,"  all  six  of  them  getting 
into  the  Bates'  sedan  and  speeding  at  forty  miles  an 
hour  out  to  the  Roadside  Inn  which  was  kept  open  only 
until  midnight. 

The  Roadside  Inn  was  a  brown  mockery  of  Elizabethan 
architecture,  about  thirty  miles  out  of  the  city  on  a  good 
road.  The  door  opened  invitingly  on  a  long  low  room 
full  of  chintz-covered  chairs  and  wicker  tables  and  at 
this  time  of  year  there  was  always  a  good  open  fire  to 


60  Spellbinders 

welcome  any  comers.  Back  of  that  a  dining  room  and, 
parallel  with  the  two,  a  long  dance  room,  where  three 
enforcedly  gay  negroes  pounded  out  melodies  in  jungle 
time  hour  after  hour  every  evening.  Upstairs  there 
were  half  a  dozen  small  bed  rooms  for  transient  auto- 
mobilists  who  wanted  to  stay  in  the  country  for  some 
reason  or  other  or  whose  cars  had  broken  down. 

The  place  was  on  the  fence  between  decency  and 
shadowy  repute.  It  was  frequented  by  people  of  all 
kinds,  people  who  were  respectable  and  people  suspected 
of  not  being  so.  The  landlady  ignored  any  distinc- 
tions. She  had  made  the  place  into  a  well-paying 
institution,  had  put  its  decoration  into  the  hands  of  a 
good  architect  with  whom  she  always  quarreled  about 
his  charges  and  she  asked  no  questions  if  her  customers 
paid  their  bills.  Probably  she  saw  no  difference  between 
those  of  her  guests  who  were  of  one  kind  and  those  of 
another.  They  all  danced  in  much  the  same  manner, 
were  equally  noisy,  equally  critical  of  the  extremely  good 
food  and  that  was  as  far  as  her  contact  or  comment 
went.  If  the  food  had  not  been  so  good,  the  place 
would  have  suffered  in  patronage,  but  that  was  unfailing. 
The  cook  was  ready  now  at  five  minutes'  notice  to  concoct 
chicken  a  la  king  and  make  coffee  for  the  Brownley 
party  and  as  they  came  back  from  the  dance  room  after 
having  tried  out  the  floor  and  the  music,  their  supper 
was  ready. 

Freda  had  not  acquitted  herself  badly  there  either. 
Without  having  all  the  tricks  of  the  Brownley s,  she  had 
a  grace  and  sense  of  rhythm  which  helped  her  to  adapt 
herself.  Besides  she  had  the  first  dance  with  Ted.  He 
held  her  close,  hardly  looking  at  her.  That  was  his  way 
in  dancing. 

"You  must  be  very  gay  in  Mohawk,"  said  Barbara 
when  they  were  all  at  the  table  in  the  dining  room  again. 


City  Mice  61 

The  edge  of  her  malice  was  lost  on  Freda. 

"No— not  at  all.     Why?" 

"You  seem  very  experienced." 

A  little  glimmer  of  amusement  came  into  Freda's  eyes. 

"Well — not  first  hand  experience.  We  read — we  go 
to  moving  pictures." 

"I  suppose  lots  of  people  are  picking  up  ideas  from 
the  moving  pictures/'  Barbara  commented  carelessly. 

One  of  the  Bates  boys  was  drawing  something  from 
his  pocket.  Barbara  looked  at  it  indifferently,  Allie  with 
a  frown  of  annoyance. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,  Tony,  to  cut  that  stuff  out?" 

"We'll  all  be  cutting  it  out  soon  enough,"  said  Tony. 
"Won't  be  any.  This  is  all  right.  Tapped  father's 
supply.     A  taste  for  every  one  and  a  swallow  for  me." 

He  was  a  sallow  thin  young  person  whom  the  sight 
of  his  own  flask  seemed  to  have  waked  into  sudden 
joviality. 

"I  don't  want  any,"  said  Allie.     "Don't  waste  it." 

Then  as  Tony  Bates  ignored  her  protest,  she  drained 
her  glass  accustomedly. 

Barbara  took  her  highball  without  a  change  of  expres- 
sion or  color.  Freda  tried  to  refuse  but  they  laughed 
at  her. 

"Come.     You  came  to  the  city  to  have  a  good  time." 

She  felt  that  she  couldn't  refuse  without  seeming 
prudish.  She  has  a  fear  of  what  the  liquor  might  do  to 
her,  a  desire  to  do  what  the  rest  did. 

Her  head  felt  a  little  light,  but  that  was  all,  and  that 
only  for  a  moment.     It  wasn't  unpleasant. 

They  all  finished  the  flask.  They  danced  again,  Freda 
with  Tony  Bates,  Barbara  with  Ted.  Then  Ted  sought 
Freda  again.  He  danced  as  he  had  the  first  time  but 
he  held  her  even  closer,  more  firmly,  making  his  position 
into  an  embrace,  and  yet  dancing  perfectly.     From  over 


62  Spellbinders 

one  of  the  young  men's  shoulders,  Barbara  saw  it.  Her 
face  did  not  show  any  feeling. 

On  the  way  home  the  embracing  was  a  little  promiscu- 
ous. Allie,  dull  from  the  liquor,  lay  sprawling  against 
Tony's  rather  indifferent  shoulder.  Bob  let  the  other 
Bates  boy  paw  her  lazily  and  Freda  found  herself  rather 
absorbed  in  keeping  Ted  from  going  to  lengths  which 
she  felt  were  hardly  justified  even  by  three  or  four  high- 
balls. 

It  was  when  they  were  home  again  after  the  young 
men  had  left  that  Freda  felt  the  dislike  of  the  other  girl. 
It  was  as  if  Barbara  had  been  waiting  for  the  young  men 
to  go  to  make  Freda  uncomfortable. 

"I  hope  Ted  didn't  embarrass  you,  Miss  Thorstad?" 

"Embarrass  me?" 

"Ted  is  such  a  scandalous  flirt  that  he  is  apt,  I  think, 
to  embarrass  people  who  aren't  used  to  him.  I  always 
keep  him  at  a  distance  because  he  talks  about  girls  most 
awfully." 

"Oh,  does  he?" 

"I'm  glad  he  didn't  bother  you.  Don't  let  him  think 
you  like  him.  He  makes  the  most  terrific  game  of 
people  who  let  themselves  in  for  it." 

"Lots  of  people  do  let  themselves  in  for  it  too,"  said 
Allie  with  meaning. 

Barbara  steered  away  from  the  dangers  of  that  subject. 

"I  hope  you're  going  to  enjoy  yourself,  Miss  Thorstad. 
There  are  no  end  of  things  going  on." 

"You  mustn't  bother  about  me,"  said  Freda,  "I'm 
afraid  that  I  am  going  to  be  a  burden." 

Barbara  let  a  minute  pass,  a  minute  of  insult. 

"No— not  at  all." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Allie,  "everybody'll  be  crazy  about 
you.  You  dance  stunningly  and  the  Bateses  and  Ted 
were  nutty  about  you.     You  don't  have  to  worry." 


City  Mice  63 

Freda  said  good  night  and  left  them.  She  went  slowly 
up  the  staircase,  thinking  what  fun  it  would  be  to  climb 
that  staircase  every  night,  to  go  down  it  by  natural 
right,  to  belong  to  it. 

The  sense  of  Barbara's  dislike  pervaded  everything 
else.  She  felt  that  she  must  have  made  a  fool  of  her- 
self with  that  young  fellow.  He  must  have  thought  her 
a  dreadful  idiot.  Ah,  well,  the  first  evening  was  over 
and  she'd  had  some  experience.  She  had  been  at  a 
dinner  where  there  was  an  entree,  she  had  used  a  fish 
fork,  she  had  danced  at  a  roadhouse.  She  laughed  at 
herself  a  little. 

"I've  been  draining  the  fleshpots  of  Egypt,"  she  said, 
sitting  on  the  bottom  of  her  mother's  bed.  Her  mother's 
prim  little  braids  of  hair  against  the  pillow  were  sil- 
houetted in  the  moonlight. 

"You  were  very  nice  to-night,"  said  her  mother  prac- 
tically. "Mrs.  Flandon  wants  us  both  to  go  there  for 
dinner  Thursday  night." 

"I  like  Mr.  Flandon  a  lot." 

"Very  little  idealism,"  commented  Mrs.  Thorstad, 
wisely. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  HUSBAND 


YET  something  was  hurting  Gage  Flandon.  He  had 
tried  to  decide  that  he  was  not  getting  enough 
exercise,  that  he  was  smoking  too  much,  not  sleeping 
enough.  But  petty  reforms  in  those  things  did  not 
help  him.  He  felt  surging  through  him,  strange  restless- 
ness, curious  probing  dissatisfactions.  He  was  angry  at 
himself  because  he  was  in  such  a  state;  he  was  morbidly 
angry  with  his  wife  because  she  could  not  assuage  what 
he  was  feeling  nor  share  it  with  him. 

Everywhere  he  was  baffled  by  his  passion  for  Helen. 
After  six  years  of  married  life,  after  they  had  been 
through  birth,  parenthood  together,  surely  this  state  was 
neurotic.  Affection,  yes,  that  was  proper.  But  not  this 
constant  sense  of  her,  this  desire  to  absorb  her,  own  her 
completely  and  segregate  her  completely.  He  knew  the 
feeling  had  been  growing  on  him  lately  since  her  friend 
had  come  to  the  city,  but  his  resentment  was  not  against 
Margaret.  It  was  directed  against  his  wife  and  that 
he  could  not  reason  this  into  justice  gnawed  at  him. 

He  was  spending  a  great  deal  of  time  thinking  about 
what  was  wrong  with  women.  He  would  hit  upon  a 
phrase,  a  clever  sentence  that  solved  everything.  And 
then  he  was  back  where  he  had  begun.  He  could  resolve 
nothing  in  phrases.  He  and  Helen  would  discuss  femin- 
ism, masculinism,  sex,  endlessly,  and  always  end  as 
antagonists — or  as  lovers,  hiding  from  their  own  antagon- 
ism. But  they  could  not  leave  the  subjects  alone.  They 
tossed    them    back    and    forth,    wearily,    impatiently. 

64 


A  Husband  65 

Always  over  the  love  for  each  other  which  they  could 
not  deny,  hung  this  cloud  of  discussion,  making  every 
caress  suspected  of  a  motive,  a  "reaction." 

When  Gage  had  been  sent  at  twelve  years  of  age  to  a 
boys'  military  preparatory  school,  it  had  been  definitely 
done  to  "harden  him."  He  was  a  dreamy  little  boy,  not 
in  the  least  delicate,  but  with  a  roving  imagination,  a 
tendency  to  say  "queer  things"  which  had  not  suited 
his  healthy  perfectly  grown  body,  his  father  felt.  Some 
one  had  suspected  him  of  having  hidden  artistic  abilities. 
His  parents  were  intelligent  people  and  they  tried  that 
out.  He  was  given  instructions  in  music  on  the  piano 
and  the  violin.  Nothing  came  of  them  but  ridges  on 
the  piano  where  he  had  kicked  it  in  his  impatience  at 
being  able  to  draw  no  melodies  from  it.  With  infinite 
patience  they  tried  to  see  if  he  had  talent  for  drawing. 
He  had  none.  So,  having  exhausted  their  researches  for 
artistic  talent,  his  parents  decided  that  there  was  a  flaw 
in  his  make-up  which  a  few  years  contact  with  "more 
manly  boys"  might  correct.  They  prided  themselves  on 
the  result.  He  succumbed  utterly  to  all  the  conventions 
of  what  makes  a  manly  boy  and  came  home  true  to  form. 

In  college  the  quirk  came  out  again  once  in  a  while. 
But  Gage  never  became  markedly  queer.  Impossible  for 
an  all-American  half-back  to  do  that.  And  he  never 
mixed  with  the  "queer  ones."  What  eccentricities  he 
had,  what  flights  of  imagination  he  took  were  strictly 
on  his  own. 

In  due  course  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  and  on  the 
heels  of  that  came  Helen.  Those  who  saw  him  in  his 
pursuit  of  Helen  said  that  he  seemed  possessed.  For 
once  his  imagination  had  found  an  outlet.  For  once  all 
those  desires  which  rose  above  his  daily  life  and  his 
usual  companions  had  found  a  channel  through  which 
they  could  pour  themselves.     Eager  for  life  as  Helen 


66  Spellbinders 

was,  full  of  dreams,  independences,  fresh  from  her  years 
at  college,  she  could  not  help  being  swept  under  by  the 
torrent  of  desire  and  worship  that  he  became.  They 
soared  away  together — they  lost  themselves  in  marriage, 
in  the  marvel  of  child  creation. 

The  war  came.  Gage  met  it  gravely,  a  little  less  spread- 
eagle  than  most  of  his  friends.  He  had  a  year  in  France 
and  came  back  with  a  fallen  enthusiasm.  He  never 
talked  about  that.  He  had  plunged  into  money  making. 
The  small  fortune  his  father  had  given  him  on  his 
marriage  had  been  absorbed  in  starting  a  home  and  Helen 
had  nothing  of  her  own.  They  needed  a  great  deal  of 
money  and  Gage  got  it,  trampling  into  politics,  into 
business,  practicing  law  well  all  the  time.  He  was  now 
thirty-eight  and  had  accumulated  a  remarkable  store  of 
influence  and  power.  Very  close  to  the  Congressman 
*  from  his  district,  keen  and  far  sighted,  as  honest  in 
keeping  promises  as  he  was  ruthless  in  dealing  with 
political  obstructionists,  he  was  recognized  as  the  key 
man  to  his  very  important  district.  He  knew  politics 
as  he  knew  law  but  he  built  no  ideals  on  it.  It  was 
perhaps  his  very  thorough  knowledge  of  the  deviousness 
of  its  methods  which  made  him  reluctant  to  have  Helen 
meddle  with  it.  For  although  he  had  accepted  the 
suffrage  of  women  as  a  political  phenomenon  which 
had  to  be  taken  in  hand  and  dealt  with,  he  had  no  belief 
that  the  old  game  would  change  much. 

He  nearly  always  looked  his  full  age.  His  face  was 
one  of  those  into  which  deep  lines  come  early,  well 
modeled,  but  with  no  fineness  of  detail.  And  his  large 
built  body,  always  carelessly  dressed,  was  the  same.  Yet 
there  were  times,  Helen  knew,  when  his  eyes  became 
plaintive  and  wondering  and  he  looked  as  the  little  boy 
who  was  sent  away  to  be  "hardened"  must  have  looked. 
Only  he  was  learning  to  cover  those  times  with  a  scowl. 


A  Husband  67 

He  was  finding  that  he  could  not  quiet  all  the  mental 
nightmares  he  had  with  his  love  for  Helen.  Because 
that  love  itself  was  infested  by  this  strange  new  "woman 
problem."  What  securities  of  opinion  had  been  swept 
away  by  study,  by  war,  what  questions  in  him  were  left 
unsatisfied — those  things  were  hidden  in  him.  He  had 
clung  to  love  and  faith  in  marriage.  And  now  that 
stronghold  was  being  attacked.  He  was  hearing  people 
who  called  it  all  fake,  all  false  psychology.  And  he  did 
not  know  how  much  Helen  believed  these  people.  He 
felt  her  restlessness  in  horror.  He  saw  no  direction  in 
which  she  might  go  away  from  him  where  she  would 
not  meet  destruction,  where  false,  incomplete  ideas  would 
not  ruin  her.     It  was  making  him  a  reactionary. 

For,  because  he  had  no  solution  himself,  he  was  forced 
to  fall  back  on  negations.  He  denied  everything,  sank 
back  into  an  idealism  of  the  past. 

"I  liked  that  girl,"  he  said  to  his  wife  about  Freda, 
"no  fake." 

"None,"  answered  Helen.  "I  hoped  you'd  like  her, 
Gage." 

"She  says  that  the  trouble  with  women  is  that  they've 
lost  the  spirit  of  romance  and  that  they've  dug  the 
romance  out  of  men's  souls  too." 

It  was  what  he  himself  had  said  but  it  was  easier  to 
put  to  Helen  in  that  way. 

"Young  thing — full  of  phrases."  His  wife  laughed 
lightly. 

It  was  the  night  on  which  Freda  and  her  mother  were 
to  dine  with  them.  Gage,  dressed  before  his  wife,  had 
dropped  in  to  watch  her.  He  loved  to  see  her  do  her 
hair.  She  seemed  exquisitely  beautiful  to  him  when  she 
deftly  parted  and  coiled  the  loose  masses  of  it — more 
than  beautiful — exquisitely  woman.  He  loved  to  see  the 
woman  quality  in  her,  not  to  awaken  passion  or  desire 


68  Spellbinders 

but  for  the  sense  of  wonder  it  gave  him.  He  loved  to 
cherish  her. 

"We're  all  full  of  phrases,"  he  said,  a  little  hurt  already. 
"But  she  has  something  behind  her  phrases.  She's  un- 
spoiled yet  by  ideas." 

"She's  full  of  ideas.  You  should  see  the  things  that 
young  modern  reads.  She's  without  experience — without 
dogmas  yet.  But  she'll  acquire  those.  At  present  she's 
looking  for  beauty.  You  might  show  it  to  her,  she  may 
find  it  in  Margaret;  perhaps  she'll  find  it  in  her  canting 
little  mother." 

"She  would  find  it  in  you  if  you'd  let  her  see  you." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  anything  to  copy?  You  seem 
dissatisfied  so  often,  Gage." 

"Don't,  Helen."  He  came  over  to  where  she  sat  and 
bent  to  lay  his  cheek  against  her  hair.  Her  hand  caressed 
his  cheek  and  his  eyes  closed. 

She  wanted  to  ask  him  what  would  happen  to  them 
if  they  could  not  bury  argument  in  a  caress  but  she  knew 
the  torch  that  would  be  to  his  anger.  He  felt  her  lack 
of  response. 

"I'm  not  dissatisfied  with  you.  I'm  dissatisfied  be- 
cause I  can't  have  you  completely  to  myself.  I'm  dis- 
satisfied because  you  can't  sit  beside  me,  above  and 
indifferent  to  a  host  of  silly  men  and  women  parading 
false  ideas." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  they  are  false.  I  can't  get  your 
conviction  about  everything  modern.  I  want  to  try 
things  out." 

"But,  Helen,  it's  not  your  game.  Look — since  Mar- 
garet came  you've  been  dabbling  in  this — that — politics, 
clubs,  what  not.     You  are  bored  with  me." 

"Impossible,  darling.  But  you  really  mustn't  expect 
the  good,  old-fashioned,  clinging  vine  stuff  from  me.  I'm 
not  any  good  at  it.     Now  please  hurry  down,  dear,  and 


A  Husband  69 

see  if  there  are  cigars  and  cigarettes,  will  you?  And 
you'll  have  to  have  your  cocktail  alone  because  if  I  had 
one  before  Mrs.  Thorstad  she'd  think  I  was  a  Scarlet 
Woman.' ' 

There  was  nothing  for  Gage  to  do  but  go  with  that 
familiar  sense  of  failure. 

After  he  had  gone,  Helen's  face  lost  some  of  its  light- 
ness and  she  sat  looking  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Without 
admiration — without  calculation.  She  was  wondering 
how  much  of  love  was  sex — wondering  how  she  could 
fortify  herself  against  the  passing  of  the  charms  of  sex 
— wondering  why  Gage  had  such  a  frantic  dislike  of 
women  like  Margaret  who  hadn't  succumbed  to  sex — 
wondering  if  that  was  the  reason.  She  thought  of  the 
pretty  Thorstad  child.  Gage  liked  her.  That  too  might 
be  a  manifestation  of  vague  unadmitted  desire.  She 
shivered  a  little.  Such  thoughts  made  her  very  cold. 
Then  with  a  conscience  smitten  glance  at  her  little 
porcelain  clock  she  slipped  into  her  dress  and  rang  for 
the  maid  to  hook  it. 

The  nurse  maid  came  and  entertained  Helen,  as  she 
helped  her,  with  an  account  of  the  afternoon  she  had 
spent  with  Bennett  and  Peggy.  Peggy  had  learned  to 
count  up  to  ten  and  Bennett  was  trying  to  imitate  her. 
Helen  wished  she  had  heard  them.  She  hated  to  miss 
any  bit  of  the  development  of  her  fascinating  children. 
It  was  a  feeling  that  Margaret  had  told  her  she  had  better 
steel  herself  against. 


It  was  a  wonderful  evening  for  Freda.  In  the 
thoroughly  friendly  atmosphere  she  expanded.  She 
made  it  wonderful  for  Gage  too.  He  had  the  sense  of 
an  atmosphere  freed  from  all  censoriousness  of  analysis. 


70  Spellbinders 

Freda  was  drinking  in  impressions,  finding  her  way  by 
feeling  alone.  He  basked  in  the  warm  worshipful  ad- 
miration she  gave  his  wife. 

They  left  early  and  Gage  drove  them  home,  leaving 
Freda  at  her  hostess*  door  with  a  promise  to  give  her 
a  real  drive  some  day  and  an  admonition  not  to  fall  in 
love  with  any  young  wastrel.  Part  of  their  bantering 
conversation  had  been  about  Freda's  falling  in  love  and 
how  completely  she  was  to  do  it. 

"I'll  let  you  look  him  over  if  you  will,  Mr.  Flandon." 

"Fine,"  he  said,  'Til  see  if  he's  the  right  sort." 

He  had  told  Helen  he  was  going  to  drop  in  at  the  club 
for  a  few  minutes  and  see  if  he  could  find  a  man  he 
wanted  to  see.  But  the  object  of  his  search  was  not  to 
be  seen  and  Gage  was  about  to  leave  the  lounge  when 
Walter  Carpenter  called  him.  Carpenter  lived  at  the 
club.  He  was  stretched  in  one  of  the  long  soft  chairs 
before  the  fire,  his  back  to  the  rest  of  the  room.  Gage 
stopped  beside  him. 

"How's  everything?" 

"So-so." 

Walter  offered  a  cigar,  and  indicated  a  chair. 

"No — I  think  I'll  go  on  home,"  said  Gage,  taking  the 
cigar. 

"Better  smoke  it  here." 

For  all  his  casualness  it  was  clear  that  Walter  wanted 
company.  Gage  dropped  into  the  nearby  chair  and  they 
talked  for  a  few  minutes,  without  focusing  on  anything. 
Then  Walter  began. 

"Wonderful  girl,  that  Vassar  friend  of  Helen's." 

"Margaret  Duffield  ?     Think  so  ?" 

"I've  never  seen  a  girl  I  liked  as  much,"  said  Walter. 

He  said  it  in  the  cool,  dispassionate  way  that  he  said 
most  things,  without  any  embarrassment.  Embarrass- 
ments of  all  sorts  had  been  sloughed  off  during  the  fifteen 


A  Husband  71 

years  of  Walter's  business  and  social  achievements. 
Gage  looked  at  him  frowningly. 

"You  don't  mean  you're  serious — you?" 

"Why  not — I?"  repeated  Carpenter,  grinning  im- 
perturably. 

He  didn't  look  serious  or  at  least  impassioned,  Gage 
might  have  said.  His  long  figure  was  stretched  out 
comfortably.  It  was  slightly  thickened  about  the  waist,^ 
and  his  sleek  hair  was  thinning  as  his  waist  was  thicken- 
ing. His  calm,  well-shaven  face  was  as  good  looking  as 
that  of  a  well-kept,  well-fed  man  of  thirty-seven  is  apt 
to  be.  It  was  losing  the  sharpness  and  the  vitality  of 
youth  but  it  did  not  yet  have  the  permanent  contours  of 
its  middle  age.  And  it  bore  all  the  signs  of  healthy 
living  and  living  that  was  not  only  for  the  sake  of  satisfy- 
ing his  appetites. 

"Why — it  never  occurred  to  me,"  said  Gage,  puffing 
a  little  harder  at  his  cigar. 

"That  I  might  get  married?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  rather  thought  that  if  you  married 
you'd  pick  a  different  sort  of  a  girl." 

"I  might  have  done  that  a  long  time  ago.  I've  seen 
enough  sorts.  No — I  never  have  seen  one  before  who 
really— " 

He  paused  reflectively,  unaccustomed  in  the  language 
of  emotion. 

"She's  a  fine  looking  girl."  Gage  felt  he  must  pay 
some  tribute. 

"She  is  fine  looking.  She  has  a  face  that  you  can't 
forget — not  for  a  minute." 

"But,"  said  Gage,  "you  must  know  that  she's  the 
rankest  kind  of  a  woman's  righter — a  feminist." 

"What's  a  feminist?"  asked  Walter  calmly. 

"Damned  if  I  know.  It  means  anything  any  woman 
wants  it  to  mean.     It's  driven  everybody  to  incoherence. 


72  Spellbinders 

But  what  I  mean  is  that  that  kind  of  woman  doesn't 
make  any  concessions  to— sex." 

They  lifted  the  conversation  away  from  Margaret  into 
a  generalization.  Both  of  them  wanted  to  talk  about  her 
but  it  couldn't  be  done  with  her  as  an  openly  acknowl- 
edged example. 

"Well,"  answered  Carpenter,  "perhaps  that  was  coming 
to  us.  Perhaps  we  were  expecting  women  to  make  too 
many  concessions  to  sex.  There  are  a  lot  of  uncultivated 
qualities  in  women  you  know.  They  can't  devote  all  their 
time  to  our  meals  and  our  children." 

"I  don't  object  to  their  devoting  their  time  to  anything 
they  like.  I  do  object  to  their  scattering  themselves, 
wearing  themselves  out  on  a  lot  of  damned  nonsense. 
Let  them  vote.  Granted  we've  got  to  have  a  few  female 
political  hacks  like  this  Thorstad  woman.  It  won't  hurt 
her  any.  It's  all  right  for  Mrs.  Brownley — and  that 
type  of  wise  old  girl — to  play  at  politics.  But  for  a 
woman — a  young  woman  who  ought  to  be  finding  out 
all  the  things  in  life  that  belong  to  her,  who  ought  to  be 
— letting  herself  go  naturally — being  a  woman — for  her 
to  go  in  for  a  spellbinder's  career  is  depressing  and 
worse." 

Walter  smiled  quizzically. 

"Haven't  women  always  been  just  that,  spellbinders? 
Isn't  that  the  job  we  gave  them  long  ago?  Haven't 
women  been  spellbinders  for  thousands  of  years  ?" 

"God  knows  they  have,"  said  Gage. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  recollecting  his  argument, 
then  plunged  on. 
V  "It  was  all  right  when  it  was  instinctive  and  natural 

but  now  it's  so  damned  self-conscious.  They're  picking 
all  their  instincts  to  pieces,  reading  Freud  on  sex,  analyz- 
ing every  honest  caress,  worrying  about  being  submerged 
in  homes  and  husbands.     It's  wrecking,  I  tell  you,  Walter. 


A  Husband  73 

It's  spoiling  their  grain.  And  I'll  tell  you  another  thing. 
It's  the  women's  colleges  that  start  it  all.  If  I  had  my 
way  I'd  burn  the  things  to  the  ground.  They  start  all 
the  trouble." 

Walter  broke  the  silence  again. 

"The  reason  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  was  because  some 
of  the  difficulties  you  suggest  were  simmering  in  my  own 
mind.  And  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  you  and  Helen 
got  away  with  the  whole  business  so  well.  You've  had 
children — you've  managed  to  keep  everything — haven't 
you  worked  it  out  for  yourself  anyway?" 

"You  can't  work  it  out,"  said  Gage,  impatiently,  "by 
just  having  children.     It  doesn't  end  the  chapter." 

"It's  a  difficult  time." 

"It's  a  rotten  time.  You  know  I  can't  help  feeling, 
Walter,  that  the  women  of  this  generation  are  potentially 
all  that  they  claim  to  be  actually.  It  isn't  that  I'd  deny 
them  any  chance.  But  to  let  them  be  guided  by  fakirs 
or  by  their  own  inexperience  will  land  them  in  a  worse 
mess  than  ever.  Look  at  some  of  them  who  have 
achieved  prominence-pictures  in  the  New  York  Times 
anyway.  Their  very  pictures  show  they  are  neurasthenic. 
Look  at  the  books  written  about  them  that  they  feed  on. 
Books  which  won't  allow  a  single  natural  normal  impulse 
or  fact  of  sex  to  go  unanalyzed.  Books  which  question 
every  duty.  Books  which  are  merely  tracts  in  favor  of 
barrenness.  Books  written  almost  always  by  people  who 
live  abnormally.  After  a  diet  of  that,  can  any  woman 
live  with  a  man  wholesomely — can  she  keep  her  mind 
clear  and  fine  ?" 

Walter  shook  his  head — then  laughed. 

"Well — what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  do  a  damned  thing  but  growl  about 
it,  I  suppose.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  don't  care  what 
most  women  do.     But  when  I  see  the  fakirs  lay  their 


74  Spellbinders 

hands  on  Helen — Helen,  who  is  about  as  perfect  a  woman 
— "  he  stopped  abruptly,  and  then  went  on.  "I'm  not  a 
very  good  person  to  talk  to  on  this  woman  question. 
I'm  balled  up,  you  see.  I  only  know  that  the  trend  is 
dangerous.  They  got  their  inch  of  political  equality. 
Now  they  want  an  ell.  They  don't  want  to  be  women 
any  longer." 

"It's  all  interesting,"  answered  Walter.  "Of  course, 
it's  difficult  not  to  think  in  terms  of  one's  own  experiences. 
Now  I  never  have  seen  a  woman  like  Miss  Duffield.  Of 
course  I  haven't  an  idea  that  she'll  have  me.  But  per- 
sonally I'd  be  quite  willing  to  trust  to  her  terms  if  she 
did.     I've  never  seen  a  woman  of  more  essential  honesty." 

They  were  disinclined  to  talk  further.  Gage,  after  a 
few  trivialities,  left  Walter  to  his  dream,  conscious  that 
what  he  had  said  had  produced  no  disturbance  or  real 
question  in  the  other's  mind.  It  was  easy  for  one  to 
transcend  generalities  with  the  wonderful  possibilities 
of  any  particular  case,  Gage  knew.  He'd  done  it  him- 
self.  " 

ni 

Unconsciously  as  he  went  toward  his  home,  he  was 
doing  it  again.  He  had  never  lost  the  magic  of  going 
home  to  his  wife.  Entering  the  still  hall,  where  the 
single  lamp  cast  tiny  pools  of  light  through  the  crystal 
chandelier,  he  was  pervaded  by  her  presence.  Some- 
where, awake  or  asleep,  above  that  stairway,  was  Helen. 
The  gentle  fact  of  it  put  him  at  peace. 

Her  door  was  closed  and  he  went  softly  past  it  to  his 
own  room.  Then,  in  a  dressing  gown,  he  settled  him- 
self in  an  easy  chair  by  a  reading  lamp,  no  book  before 
him,  cherishing  that  mental  quiet  which  surrounded  him. 

Down  the  hall  he  heard  her  door  open  quietly  and  her 
footfall  on  the  soft  rug.     She  had  heard  him  come  in 


A  Husband  75 

and  was  come  to  say  good  night.  With  a  quick  motion 
he  turned  out  the  light  beside  him  and  waited. 

"Asleep,  Gage?"  She  spoke  softly,  not  to  awaken 
him,  if  he  were  asleep. 

"No — resting — here  by  the  window." 

She  found  her  way  to  him  and  he  gathered  her  up  in 
his  arms. 

"You  wonderful  bundle  of  relaxation !  Have  you  any 
idea  how  I  love  you  like  this  ?" 

"Do  you  know,  Gage,  I  think  that  for  all  our  bad 
moments  that  we  are  really  happier  than  most  people  ?" 

"There's  no  one  in  the  world,  dear,  as  happy  as  I  am 
at  this  moment." 

"And  it  isn't  just  because  I'm — " 

He  bent  his  head  to  her,  stifling  her  sentence. 

"You  mustn't  talk — don't  say  it.  It  isn't  because  of 
anything.     It  just  is." 

"I  know.  And  when  it  is — it  swallows  up  the  times 
when  it  isn't." 

"Hush,  sweetheart.     Let's  not — talk.    Let's  just  rest." 

He  felt  her  grow  even  easier  in  his  arms.  All  the 
instinct  for  poetry  in  him,  starved,  without  vehicle, 
sought  to  dominate  the  relentlessness  of  her  mind,  work- 
ing, working  in  its  tangles  of  thought.  The  meaning  of 
his  inexpressible  love  for  her  must  come  through  his 
arms,  must  be  compelling,  tender.  They  sat  together  in 
the  big  chair  enfolded  in  peace.  And  the  same  little 
secret  thought  ran  from  one  to  the  other,  comforting 
them.     This  is  the  best. 


CHAPTER  VI 


MARGARET 


MARGARET  made  the  faintest  little  grimace  of  dis- 
•  may  at  the  long  florist's  box  for  which  she  had 
just  signed  the  receipt  presented  by  the  messenger.  It 
wasn't  a  grimace  of  displeasure  but  a  puzzled  look  as  if 
the  particular  calculation  involved  was  an  unresolved 
doubt.  Then  she  cut  the  pale  green  string  and  lifted 
the  flowers  out. 

There  were  flowers  for  every  corner,  fresia,  daffodils, 
narcissus — everything  that  the  florist's  windows  were 
blooming  with  during  this  second  week  of  May.  She 
touched  them  with  delight,  sorted  them,  placed  them  in 
every  bit  of  crockery  she  could  find.  But  Mrs.  Thorstad 
sat  in  a  chair  drawn  up  before  the  mission  oak  table  in 
Margaret's  little  rented  apartment  and  waited.  She  was 
impatient  that  the  flowers  should  have  come  at  a  moment 
when  their  discussion  hinged  on  a  crisis.  And  as  if  her 
respect  for  Margaret  had  fallen  a  little,  she  eyed  the 
display  without  appreciation.  Margaret  talked,  as  she 
placed  the  flowers,  however,  as  if  she  could  separate  her 
mental  reactions  from  her  esthetic. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you  saw  the  way  the  thing  went. 
It  was  absolutely  cut  and  dried.  I  knew  there  was  no 
chance  of  getting  a  woman  elected  as  one  of  the  regular 
delegates  to  the  National  Convention.  Pratt  and  Abbott 
were  the  slate  from  the  beginning.  Every  one  knew 
Gage  Flandon  wanted  them  and  every  one  knew  that 
meant  they  were  Joyce's  choice  if  Flandon  wanted  them. 

76 


Margaret  77 

I  had  talked  to  Mr.  Flandon  about  it  but  he  wouldn't 
tell  me  anything  really  revealing.  Except  that  the  slate 
was  made  up  and  while  they  were  very  glad  to  have  the 
women  as  voters  that  it  might  be  better  to  wait  another 
four  years  before  they  gave  mem  a  chance  to  sit  in  at  a 
National  Convention.  He  didn't  intend  to  have  a  woman 
and  especially  he  didn't  intend  to  have  one  because  he 
knew  there  was  some  agitation  to  send  his  own  wife." 

"That  was  what  the  mistake  was,  I  think,  Miss  Duffield. 
I  think  another  candidate  might  have  done  better." 

"But  they  never  even  mentioned  any  woman,"  ex- 
claimed Margaret.  Then  as  if  she  got  the  other  woman's 
meaning,  she  gave  her  a  searching  look. 

Mrs.  Thorstad  talked  blandly  on.  Margaret  finished 
her  work  of  beauty  and  came  back  to  the  table,  tapping 
the  surface  of  it  with  her  regained  pencil. 

"What  we  must  propose  is  a  woman  with  a  national 
ideal,  a  woman  thoroughly  interested  in  the  district, 
conversant  with  its  needs  and  with  a  democratic  per- 
sonality." 

Thus  definitely  did  Mrs.  Thorstad  outline  what  she 
believed  to  be  her  virtues,  but  Margaret  did  not  seem  to 
understand  them  as  solely  hers. 

"Helen  Flandon  combines  all  those  things." 

"Personally,"  broke  in  the  other  woman,  "I  have 
always  admired  Mrs.  Flandon  immensely.  But  I  have 
always  felt  that  her  interest  in  all  these  matters  was 
perhaps  a  little  transitory.  That  is  no  reflection  on  her, 
of  course"  (Margaret  nodded  acquiescence)  "but  a 
woman  with  so  many  domestic  duties  and  with  so  much 
society  life  must  necessarily  not  be  able  to  give  her  whole 
mind  to  the  work." 

"She'd  give  her  whole  mind  if  she  got  interested 
enough  and  I  think  she  is  nearly  interested  enough  now. 
Helen  Flandon  is  big  material,  Mrs.  Thorstad.     She  has 


78  Spellbinders 

the  genius  of  leadership.  It's  a  bit  banked  with  ashes 
just  now  but  it  could  be  fanned  into  flame." 

"Won't  the  fact  that  she  is  Gage  Flandon's  wife  work 
against  her  ?" 

"Not  materially,  I  think.  Of  course  that's  one  thing 
that  bothers  Gage.  He  thinks  he'll  be  accused  of  using 
influence  to  get  his  wife  in.  Told  me  the  thing  was 
impossible  on  that  account.  Let  him  be  accused  of  it. 
It  doesn't  matter.  Her  name  will  please  the  men. 
They'll  think  they're  pleasing  Flandon  by  letting  her  in 
and  that's  of  course  a  thing  he  can't  deny." 

Mrs.  Thorstad  apparently  did  not  get  all  the  subtleties 
of  those  statements.  A  settled  darkness  had  come  over 
her  face — a  kind  of  clouded  vision. 

Margaret  went  blithely  on. 

She  talked  easily,  wisely,  giving  the  wounded  hopes  of 
Mrs.  Thorstad  a  chance  to  get  over  their  first  bleeding, 
giving  her  a  chance  to  get  her  hopes  fixed  a  little  on  that 
political  future  which,  although  she  was  apparently  not 
to  be  made  delegate  at  large,  still  loomed  ahead.  She 
suggested  that  Mrs.  Thorstad  should  surely  be  at  the 
Convention  in  some  capacity.  And  she  went  on,  telling 
of  the  Washington  leaders,  the  section  leaders,  of  the 
general  plans  for  work  and  education  in  politics  among 
women.     Then  she  spoke  of  Freda. 

"Is  she  going  to  stay  here  after  all  ?     I  do  hope  so." 

"Well,  I  go  home  to-morrow.  Mrs.  Flandon  has  been 
interested  in  Freda's  staying.  She  thought  there  must  be 
things  Freda  could  do  here  and  Freda  wants  to  stay. 
Freda  doesn't  typewrite  but  at  the  Republican  headquar- 
ters there  may  be  a  place  for  her.  Mr.  Flandon  has 
promised  to  speak  to  the  chairman  about  taking  Freda 
on  as  secretary.  At  first  there'd  be  only  a  certain  small 
amount  of  correspondence  but  later  they  say  they  could 


Margaret  79 

put  her  in  the  campaign  headquarters.  I  must  go  back  to 
Mohawk.  Freda  stays  for  a  day  or  so  at  Mrs.  Brown- 
ley's — then  if  she  takes  this  position,  Mrs.  Flandon  will 
help  her  find  a  place  to  live.  It's  extremely  kind  of  all 
of  you  to  be  so  interested  in  Freda." 

"She's  a  very  wonderful  young  person.  I  only  hope 
she  gets  more  interested  in  us." 

"She  has  all  the  irresponsibility  of  youth,"  said  her 
mother,  sententiously. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  Margaret,  "I  promised  to  lend 
your  Freda  a  book.  Here  it  is."  She  took  a  book  from 
the  table  and  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Thorstad  who  eyed  it  a 
little  questioningly. 

"It's  very  stimulating  if  not  altogether  found,"  said 
Margaret. 

"So  much  of  our  literature  is  that."  The  older  woman 
compressed  her  lips  a  little.  "Not  that  I  am  not  a 
Modern.  But  we  are  a  little  inclined  to  lose  sight  of  the 
fact  that  our  fathers  and  mothers — " 

This  time  her  little  platform  manner  was  interrupted 
by  the  ringing  of  the  house  phone.  Margaret  spoke  into 
it,  briefly. 

"Why,  yes,  I'm  nearly  ready.  I  didn't  realize  it  was 
so  late.     No,  indeed  not.     Come  in  and  wait  for  me." 

"Don't  hurry,  Mrs.  Thorstad,"  she  added,  hanging  up 
the  receiver.     "Mr.  Carpenter  can  wait." 

But  Mrs.  Thorstad  did  hurry.  And  as  she  went  out 
she  met  Walter  Carpenter  going  in.  She  gave  him  her 
reserved  little  bow. 

The  two  Thorstads  were  still  at  the  Brownley  house. 
The  visit  had  turned  out  so  much  better  than  Freda  had 
feared  that  two  weeks  had  slipped  away  quickly  for  her 
while  her  mother  was  working  and  planning  and  making 
speeches  to  small  clubs  and  circles  along  the  lines  her 


80  Spellbinders 

hostess  desired.  Freda  was  out  with  Allison  Brownley 
on  this  particular  afternoon  and  the  two  guest  rooms 
were  empty  as  Mrs.  Thorstad  entered  them. 

She  sat  down  in  a  straight  chair  (the  habit  of  relaxing 
had  long  since  failed  her)  and  fell  into  thought,  idly 
turning  the  pages  of  the  book  she  had  borrowed  from 
Miss  Duffield.  A  letter  slipped  out  and  fell  to  the  floor. 
It  had  no  envelope  and  as  Mrs.  Thorstad  picked  it  up 
she  read  clearly  the  scrawl  of  writing  in  black,  heavy 
masculine  characters  across  the  back  of  the  page.  It  was 
a  love  letter  to  Margaret  signed  with  a  black  sprawling 
male  signature,  "Gregory."  So  Mrs.  Thorstad  would 
phrase  it  with  a  little  repression  of  her  lips.  There  were 
words  of  passion — there  was  a  flavor  of  intimacy — 

She  read  no  more  than  that  back  page.  Then,  holding 
the  letter  as  if  it  offended  her,  she  placed  it  in  one  of 
Mrs.  Brownley's  envelopes  and  addressed  it  to  Margaret. 


"Did  I  drive  away  a  visitor  ?"  asked  Walter. 

"No — she  was  through  with  me.  You're  rather  a 
relief." 

Margaret  could  smile  with  the  most  complete  friend- 
liness of  any  woman  he  had  ever  seen,  thought  her 
visitor.  She  lifted  her  head  and  smiled  straight  at  you. 
LThere  were  no  evasions  in  her  way  of  showing  that  she 
was  glad  to  see  you.  She  didn't  hold  her  gladness  as  a 
prize,  but  made  you  a  straight  gift  of  it.  He  liked  the 
dress  she  was  wearing — a  fawn  colored  cloth  dress  that 
outlined  the  straight  lines  of  her  figure — he  liked  the 
way  her  hair  grew  away  from  its  boyish  side  parting 
with  a  little  curve  here  and  there. 

"I  think  I  am  a  little  early,"  he  said,  looking  at  his 


Margaret  81 

watch,  "but  I  thought  since  I  was  through  at  the  office 
I'd  come  up,  and  you  might  be  willing  to  come  out  for, 
a  ride  before  we  dine.     It's  just  five  o'clock/' 

"That  sounds  very  nice.  Sit  down  and  amuse  your- 
self while  I  get  my  hat." 

He  obeyed,  finding  a  book  which  did  not  seem  to 
interest  him  at  all  but  which  gave  him  a  chance  to  turn 
pages  while  she  put  on  her  hat  and  piled  the  papers  on 
her  desk.     She  turned  to  him  as  she  was  doing  that. 

"You  spoil  me." 

"I'd  like  to  spoil  you." 

"Spoil  me  by  treating  me  like  a  human  being — 
forgetting  that  I'm  a  woman  and  that  you've  been  taught 
to  flatter  women." 

"If  I  do  that  I  can't  remind  you  that  I'm  a  man  and 
it  might  be  I'd  like  you  to  think  of  that." 

It  was  very  light.  Their  tones  were  the  perfectly 
controlled  tones  of  those  who  have  emotions  thoroughly 
in  check.  But  the  note  of  seriousness  was  there  and 
they  were  both  too  wise  to  pretend  that  it  wasn't. 

"I'm  quite  ready  to  go,"  said  Margaret. 

He  helped  her  with  her  cloak  and  they  went  down  the 
stairway.  Once  in  the  car,  with  Margaret  bundled  in 
robes  he  turned  to  the  boulevards  and  they  fell  into  talk 
again.  They  liked  to  talk  to  each  other.  They  eluci- 
dated things  between  them.  They  liked  the  calmness 
of  each  other's  reactions,  the  sense  of  mutual  control 
they  had  as  they  held  a  subject  poised  on  their  reflections, 
as  they  explored  the  sensitive  delicacy  of  some  thought. 
Politics,  people,  books — but  always  their  talk  strayed  back 
to  men  and  women.  As  if  in  that  kind  of  talk  they  got 
most  pleasure  from  each  other,  as  if  the  subject  were 
inexhaustible. 

Walter  had  told  Margaret  a  great  deal  about  himself 


82  Spellbinders 

and  she  had  listened  with  interest.  Then  little  by  little 
under  that  cloak  of  the  impersonal  she  had  told  him  some- 
thing of  herself,  her  interest  in  women.  "Not  that  I 
idealize  them.  I  don't.  But  they  are  far  more  interest- 
ing than  any  work — their  problems  are  the  biggest  in 
the  world." 

"Are  you  looking  for  still  further  concessions  ?" 

"You  mustn't  use  that  word.  We're  looking  for  the 
truth  in  the  situation.  You  think  because  we  vote  that 
the  game's  up,  don't  you?  It's  not.  If  women  are  ever 
going  to  be — women,  Mr.  Carpenter,  they've  got  to 
develop  all  the  qualities  they've  been  letting  rot  and  decay 
for  hundreds  of  years.  A  few  women  have  preserved 
the  strength  all  women  should  have.  But  most  of  them — 
Do  you  dream  that  most  of  them  have  an  idea  of  doing 
any  real  work — want  any  real  work?  Do  you  think 
they're  going  to  give  up  their  security  of  support  without 
a  struggle?  They  don't  want  independence  in  the 
majority  of  cases.  They  want  certain  rules  relaxed  for 
their  convenience.  But  do  you  think  that  basically  they 
want  to  give  up  their  claim  developed  through  ages  as  a 
'weaker  sex'?" 

She  stopped,  at  the  little  smile  in  his  eyes.  "You  think 
I'm  as  oratorical  as  Mrs.  Thorstad,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  do  not,  but  I  was  thinking  that  it  was  time  we  had 
some  dinner." 

They  stopped  at  one  of  the  hotels  and  maneuvered 
their  way  through  a  crowded,  ornate  dining-room  to  a 
little  table  on  the  side  of  the  room,  Walter  bowing 
gravely  to  a  great  many  people  as  they  went  along. 

"You're  a  very  solid  citizen,  aren't  you?"  asked 
Margaret. 

"I  like  solid  citizens,"  he  answered,  "are  they  too  on 
your  list  of  obnoxious  people  and  things?" 


Margaret  83 

"Of  course  they  are  not." 

"I  was  a  little  worried  after  that  list  began  developing. 
I  don't  want  to  be  on  the  list  of  people  you  don't  like." 

But  it  was  not  until  they  had  finished  dinner  and  were 
drinking  coffee  that  he  developed  that  thought. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  how  hard  you  women  are 
making  things  for  men,"  he  said,  not  abruptly  but  as  if 
stating  his  brief. 

"Perhaps  it  was  too  easy  before." 

"Perhaps.  But  you  make  it  so  difficult — you  stand  so 
aggressively  strong — so  independent  of  us  that  we  can't 
find  a  thing  with  which  to  recommend  ourselves.  You 
don't  want  our  protection — our  support — you  mistrust 
our  motives." 

"I  told  you  this  afternoon  that  I  thought  most  women 
did  cling  to  protection  and  support." 

"Not  the  women  we  may  want.  You  don't  want  the 
things  I  have  to  offer." 

His  tones  had  hardly  raised.  In  her  first  moment  of 
embarrassment  Margaret  fumbled  for  words  but  he  went 
on  in  that  same  quiet  tone. 

"I  thought  it  was  as  well  to  be  frank  with  you.  I 
couldn't  see  that  I  would  gain  anything  by  conventional- 
ities of  courtship.  And  I'm  a  little  old  to  indulge  in 
certain  forms  of  wooing  anyhow.  I  have  never  seen  any 
woman  I  wanted  to  marry  so  much.  I  like  your  mind.. 
'And  I  mention  it  first  because  it  is  the  thing  which: 
matters  least.  I  like  more  than  that  the  way  you  smile. 
I  would  always  have  the  greatest  enjoyment  from  you 
as  a  woman  of  intellect.  But  the  real  reason  I  want 
you  to  marry  me  is  because  you  are  a  woman  of  flesh 
and  blood — and  all  that  that  means." 

She  had  flushed  a  little  and  as  he  ended  in  that 
controlled  way,  though  for  all  his  control  he  could  not 
conceal  the  huskiness  in  his  voice,  she  leaned  forward 


84  Spellbinders 

a  little  to  him,  as  if  in  sympathy.  But  she  did  not  speak. 
Her  eyes  fell  away  from  his. 

"I  care  for  you  just  as  all  men  have  a  way  of  caring 
for  women,  Margaret — I  love  you  very  much." 

"I'm  a  very  poor  person  to  love,"  she  answered,  slowly. 

"You're  a  wonderful  person  to  love.  Do  you  think 
you  could  care  for  me — ever?  After  you'd  trained  me 
a  bit?" 

"I  like  you  to  talk  to — to  be  with  as  much  as  any  one 
I've  ever  known,"  she  said  at  last.  " We've  had  a  great 
deal  of  sympathy  for  each  other.  Of  course  I  guessed 
you  liked  me.  I  rather  hoped  you  wouldn't  love  me. 
Because" — and  curiously  enough  her  voice  dropped  as  if 
in  shame,  almost  to  a  whisper — "I'm  so  cold,  Walter. 
I  don't  feel  things  like  most  women." 

"Let's  get  out  of  here,"  said  Walter,  rising  abruptly. 

But  he  was  unlucky.  At  the  very  door  they  were 
hailed  by  a  passing  automobile  and  discovered  the  Flan- 
dons,  Jerrold  Haynes  and  three  other  people,  had  seen 
them.  They  were  invited  to  come  along  to  the  theater 
where  there  were  a  couple  of  vacant  seats  in  the  boxes  the 
Flandons  had  taken.  It  seemed  ridiculous  to  refuse. 
The  play  was  conspicuously  good,  it  was  too  cold  a  night 
for  driving  and  they  all  knew  that  Margaret  had  no 
home  to  which  they  were  going.  So,  unwillingly,  Walter 
found  himself  made  part  of  the  larger  group.  For  the 
rest  of  the  evening  he  heard  Margaret  arguing  with 
Gage,  whom  Walter  noted,  seemed  very  bitter  on  the 
matter  of  his  wife's  discussed  entry  into  politics.  He 
heard  Helen  say,  suddenly  and  very  quietly,  after  some 
rather  blustering  declaration  of  Gage's,  "If  the  women 
want  me,  I  shall  go,  Gage."  Walter  was  conscious  that 
there  seemed  an  altercation  beneath  the  surface,  that  the 
geniality    of    relation    between    Helen    and    Gage    was 


Margaret  85 

lessened.  For  a  few  minutes  he  thought  Helen  was 
flirting  rather  badly  with  that  ass  of  a  Jerrold  Haynes. 

As  he  took  Margaret  home  she  talked  at  length  of 
sending  Helen  to  the  Convention. 

"You've  shelved  me,  haven't  you?"  he  asked  as  they 
entered  the  tiny  apartment  so  fragrant  with  his  flowers. 

"I  didn't  mean  to.     Come  in  and  we'll  talk  about  you.', 

"About  you  and  me."     He  came  in,  readily. 

"I  didn't  understand  that  was  what  you  wanted." 

She  did  not  let  him  touch  her  and  in  the  isolation  of 
her  room  he  could  not  persist.  For  a  while  he  sat  silent 
and  she  told  him  about  herself  and  her  lack  of  feeling. 
She  had  fine,  clear,  experienced  phrases  to  tell  of  it.  Yet 
she  was  conscious  of  making  no  impression. 

"I've  passed  the  marrying  time,"  she  said. 

"Why?" 

"It  involves  things  which  have  passed  me  by — that  I. 
no  longer  need." 

"You  mean — children?" 

"No — I  haven't  a  lot  of  sentimental  yearnings  about 
them.  But  of  course  I  would  like  to  have  children. 
There's  an  instinct  to  do  one's  duty  by  the  race,  in  every 
woman." 

He  actually  laughed. 

"You  chilled  young  woman.  Well — what  then  has 
passed  by  you?" 

She  did  not  tell  him.  Perhaps  there  were  no  words, 
no  definite  thoughts  in  her  own  mind.  She  must  have 
been  full  of  strange  inhibitions.  Analysis  crowded  so 
close  on  the  heels  of  feeling  with  her  that  she  never  could 
have  the  one  without  the  other.  All  her  study,  her  watch- 
ing of  men,  all  her  study  and  analysis  of  women  had 
made  her  mind  a  laboratory  with  her  own  emotions  for 
victims  of  analysis. 

Gregory  had  told  her  that  in  that  sprawlingly  written 


86  Spellbinders 

letter,  now  in  the  post  office,  being  sent  back  to  her  from 
Mrs.  Thorstad. 

Gregory  held  her  thought  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
looked  at  Walter  with  fresh  appreciation.  She  liked  to 
be  with  Walter.  He  didn't  oppress  her.  His  mind  met 
hers  without  pushing.  She  felt  protected  in  his  com- 
panionship from  that  rude  forcing  of  emotion  which  had 
been  so  hard  on  her. 

He  was  going  now.     At  the  door  he  held  her  hand. 

"I  could  be  very  good  to  you,"  he  said,  quietly.  "Let 
me  try." 


CHAPTER  VII 

AN  UGLY  GLIMPSE 


TV/f  RS.  THORSTAD  went  back  to  Mohawk  a  few  days 
*■**-  later,  leaving  behind  her  a  trail  of  increased 
prestige  and  carrying  with  her  many  assurances  of 
appreciation  which  she  could  cogitate  at  her  leisure.  Her 
husband  met  her  at  the  station,  quietly,  graciously  pleased 
as  he  always  was  at  a  home-coming. 

"So  Freda  stayed  for  a  while,"  he  said,  as  they  went 
down  the  street  his  arm  hanging  heavy  with  her  suit- 
case. 

"Yes.  It  will  be  nice  for  her.  Pleasant  young  girls, 
Mrs.  Brownley's  girls,  although  they  haven't  a  great 
deal  of  mentality.  Freda  attracted  quite  a  little  atten- 
tion. Miss  Duffield  is  very  anxious  for  her  to  stay  in 
St.  Pierre  but  of  course  Miss  Duffield  is  an  outsider  and 
cannot  exert  any  influence.  Mrs.  Flandon  had  some 
very  sensible  suggestions.  They  were  going  to  see  if 
there  was  a  chance  for  Freda  to  get  a  place  as  secretary 
to  the  general  Republican  district  committee  and  later 
do  some  work  for  the  campaign  committee.  She  can't 
typewrite  and  that's  a  drawback  but  they  thought  they 
might  get  around  that.  She'll  know  in  a  day  or  so. 
It  needs  the  consent  of  the  chairman  and  he's  out  of  the 
city.  But  he'll  probably  do  just  what  Mrs.  Flandon 
asks." 

"In  the  meantime  Freda  stays  at  Mrs.  Brownley's?" 

87 


88  Spellbinders 

''Yes,  and  if  she  stays  for  a  definite  work,  Mrs.  Flan- 
don  will  find  her  a  place  to  live." 

'The  Flandons  are  nice  people?" 

"Oh,  yes,  a  worldly  sort,  but  very  good.  Mrs.  Flandon 
is  to  be  made  delegate  at  large  from  the  state  if  they  can 
manage  it." 

"That's  good  stuff." 

"She's  hardly  the  person  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Thorstad. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am  convinced  that  if  this  visiting 
organizer,  Miss  Duffield,  who  after  all  is  in  a  most 
anomalous  position,  had  not  urged  it  (she  is  an  intimate 
friend  of  Mrs.  Flandon's) — well,  if  she  had  not  interfered 
I  might  have  been  made  the  delegate  at  large  myself.  As 
it  is,  I'll  have  to  try  to  get  the  Federated  clubs  to  send 
me.  I  ought  to  be  there.  It's  important  for  the  future. 
I  should  have  been  the  candidate  for  delegate  at  large." 

Her  husband  whistled  and  shifted  the  bag  to  his  other 
arm. 

"I'm  very  glad  you  were  saved  that  grave  responsibility, 
Addie,"  he  said,  with  his  unfailing  tact. 

"Yes — there  is  that  side,  of  course.  But  this  Miss 
Duffield  is  a  person  who'll  bear  watching.  I  never  can 
see  the  point  in  sending  these  unsettled  young  women 
about  the  country  organizing.  They're  dangerous  in 
some  ways.  Now  I  happen  to  know  that  Miss  Duffield 
is  the  sort  of  young  woman  who  receives  men  in  her 
rooms — it's  only  one  room  and  there's  a  bed  in  it  even  if 
it  has  a  cretonne  cover — " 

"Addie— Addie— !" 

"But  that's  not  all.  At  the  same  time  she  does  receive 
men  in  her  room — of  course  it  may  be  all  right  and  just 
a  modern  way — but  she  also  gets  passionate,  very 
suspicious  letters  from  other  men." 

Mr.  Thorstad  frowned.  But  they  reached  the  house 
just  then  and  in  the  business  of  entering  and  commenting 


An  Ugly  Glimpse  89 

on  his  housekeeping  Mrs.  Thorstad  let  the  matter  drop. 
She  flew  about  efficiently  and  her  husband  sat  back  in 
his  armchair  and  watched  her.  There  was  no  doubt  of 
his  gladness  at  her  return.  His  pleasant  gray  eyes  were 
contented,  a  little  sad  perhaps,  but  contented. 

"Freda  isn't  involved  with  any  young  men  ?"  he  asked. 

"No — they  tease  her  about  young  Smillie — that's  H.  T. 
Smillie,  First  National  Bank,  you  know,  but  she  says  that's 
just  nonsense." 

n 

Yet  it  was  that  very  night  after  the  Thorstads  had 
gone  to  bed  and  were  sleeping  in  the  pale  light  of  a  quiet 
moonlit  sky,  that  Freda  was  forced  to  admit  that  it 
wasn't  nonsense. 

All  along  she  had  hated  staying  without  her  mother, 
who  after  all  was  her  reason  for  being  here.  She  had 
to  do  it,  however,  or  else  abandon  the  chance  of  getting 
the  job  as  secretary  to  the  committee.  Freda  herself 
was  a  little  homesick  under  all  her  excitement  but,  steady- 
ing her,  there  had  come  letters  from  her  father  which 
urged  her  to  make  the  most  of  any  opportunities  which 
might  come  to  her,  which  bade  her  make  suitable  and 
wise  friends  and  learn  as  much  as  she  could. 

One  or  two  of  the  young  men  Freda  met  stood  out, 
as  being  more  interesting  than  the  others.  Ted  Smillie, 
because  he  was  so  attracted  to  her  from  the  first,  had 
more  or  less  intrigued  her.  Barbara's  obvious  dislike  of 
the  situation  had  forced  both  Ted  and  Freda  into  some- 
what closer  acquaintanceship  than  would  have  naturally 
developed,  but  they  both  worked  against  Barbara's  inter- 
ference. There  was  in  Ted,  for  all  his  amorousness, 
a  real  feeling  for  health  and  beauty.  That  drew  him 
to  Freda  and  her  to  him  and  there  was  enough  in  the 


90  Spellbinders 

glamour  of  being  chosen  by  the  most  competed- for  man 
as  worthy  of  attention,  to  make  Freda  feel  rather  strongly 
in  his  favor.  If  he  had  been  rude  to  her,  as  he  might 
have  been  to  the  country  guest  of  the  Brownley's,  she 
would  have  seen  him  more  clearly,  seen  his  weakness, 
his  impressionability,  read  the  laziness  of  his  mind,  seen 
the  signs  of  self-indulgence  which  were  already  beginning 
to  show  on  his  handsome  face.  She  would  have  seen 
him  as  too  "soft"  of  mind  and  body.  But  he  was  frankly 
at  her  feet  and  it  would  have  taken  an  older  head  than 
Freda's  to  analyze  too  clearly  past  that  during  those  first 
few  weeks. 

It  was  not  the  first  attention  she  had  had,  of  course. 
There  were  always  young  men  who  were  ready  to  be  nice 
to  Freda  in  Mohawk.  But  much  as  they  had  liked  her 
they  had  not,  as  she  would  have  said,  "made  love  to 
her."  Ted  did  that.  In  his  own  way,  he  was  good  at 
it  and  Freda  was  collecting  experiences  and  naive  in  spite 
of  her  power  to  get  a  perspective  on  her  own  situation. 
He  had  singled  Freda  out  as  capable  of  giving  him  a 
fresher  thrill  than  any  of  the  girls  of  his  own  "crowd." 
And  he  had  ended  by  being  pushed  a  little  more  than 
he  expected  by  his  own  emotions.  The  prospect  of 
Freda's  return  to  Mohawk  had  annoyed  him.  He  had 
felt  that  if  she  went  now,  it  would  be  an  incomplete 
experience.  He  wanted  more  than  he  had  had.  Freda 
had  been  pleasant,  had  been  more  than  pleasant,  been 
frank  enough  in  showing  how  much  she  liked  him.  But 
he  was  used  to  more  abandonment  in  the  girls  he  knew — 
more  freedom  of  caresses.  He  wasn't  quite  sure  how 
far  he  wanted  to  go  and  of  course  he  had  no  intention 
of  marrying  anybody,  certainly  not  Freda.  But  he  was 
unsatisfied. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brownley  had  gone  to  Chicago  the  day 
after  Mrs.  Thorstad  had  gone  home  and  the  three  girls 


An  Ugly  Glimpse  91 

were  alone  in  the  house  with  the  servants.  There  had 
been  a  gay  party  at  a  hotel  ballroom  and  at  one  o'clock 
the  three  girls  had  left  the  hotel  with  their  escorts.  Ted 
had  his  small  car  and  Freda  had  wanted  him  to  take 
Barbara  home.  But  Barbara  had  demurred,  strangely 
enough.  She  was  going  in  the  big  car  with  the  others, 
she  said. 

Barbara  had  been  making  life  hard  for  Freda  all  day. 
Wherever  they  had  been  she  had  managed  to  make  Freda 
miserable.  When  the  older  Brownleys  were  home,  and 
when  her  mother  was  with  her,  Freda  had  never  been  so 
completely  at  Barbara's  mercy  as  she  was  to-day.  Allie, 
her  usual  ally,  had  suddenly  fallen  away  too.  The  fact 
was  that  Allie,  having  pressed  her  mother  for  the  purchase 
of  the  new  runabout,  had  been  put  off  on  the  ground  that 
her  father  said  it  was  too  expensive  and  on  the  further 
ground  that  Freda's  visit  was  not  over  and  that  anyway 
Mrs.  Brownley  had  made  no  definite  promise.  Allie 
was  disgruntled  and  the  enthusiasm  she  had  had  for 
Freda  having  run  its  brief  course,  like  most  of  Allie's 
enthusiasms,  she  was  willing  to  lend  some  slight  support 
to  Barbara's  evident  ennui  with  their  guest.  All  through 
luncheon  Barbara  had  engineered  an  extremely  rude 
conversation  about  things  and  places  which  were  entirely 
foreign  to  Freda.  Not  once  had  she  let  her  guest  slip 
into  the  conversation.  She  had  misled  Freda  deliberately 
into  wearing  her  flame  colored  satin  dress  to  a  very 
informal  afternoon  affair  and  appeared  herself,  like 
every  one  else,  in  the  most  simple  suit,  making  Freda  feel 
foolishly  over  dressed.  It  was  a  little  thing  but  it  pricked 
Freda.  At  dinner  she  had  asked  some  people  to  come  in 
whom  she  knew  would  follow  her  lead  and  they  had 
again  left  Freda  high  and  dry  on  the  conversational 
sands.  It  had  not  been  a  pleasant  day  and  even  as  they 
danced,  she  and  Ted,  that  evening,  Freda  felt  Barbara's 


92  Spellbinders 

eyes  rather  scornfully  on  her  and  guessed  at  the  little  tide 
of  innuendo  that  was  being  set  in  motion.  She  knew 
Barbara's  ways  by  this  time.  She  could  not  stand  it 
another  day,  she  vowed.  In  the  morning  she  would  see 
Mrs.  Flandon  or  go  to  a  hotel  or  back  to  Mohawk. 

It  was  clear  that  the  others  had  not  arrived  when  they 
drove  up  under  the  Brownley  porte-cochere  where  a 
single  light  was  burning.  Freda  did  not  want  Ted  to 
come  in.  She  wanted  to  make  her  escape  to  bed  before 
Barbara  might  arrive  and  make  her  a  further  target. 
Besides  it  was  clear  that  Ted  had  been  drinking  and  that 
he  was  most  amorous.  But  he  was  insistent.  The 
others  would  be  along  in  a  minute  and  he  wanted  to  see 
one  of  the  boys,  he  said. 

They  went  into  the  long  drawing-room.  A  single 
standing  lamp  was  lit  beside  a  big  divan  and  at  Freda's 
gesture  as  if  she  would  turn  on  more,  Ted  caught  her 
hand. 

"Quite  enough  light,"  he  said.    "Come  sit  down." 

His  methods  were  not  as  subtle  as  usual  and  they 
frightened  Freda.  But  she  thought  it  wiser  not  to 
quarrel  with  him  and  sat  down  obediently  beside  him  on 
the  divan — much  too  close  for  her  taste. 

"You  aren't  really  going  away,  are  you,  Freda?" 

"I  can't  stay  forever.  My  welcome's  wearing  a  little 
thin." 

She  tried  to  pull  away  from  that  encircling  arm  but 
he  would  not  have  it.  His  strength  had  surprised  her 
before,  and  she  had  not  before  minded  his  demonstra- 
tions. To-night  she  felt  them  as  different,  vaguely 
repellent. 

"Please  don't,  Ted." 

"I'm  crazy  about  you,  Freda.  I've  never  seen  a  girl 
like  you.     There  aren't  any  girls  like  you.     Never  have 


An  Ugly  Glimpse  93 

been  any.  I  never  knew  what  it  meant  to  be  in  love 
before." 

And  all  the  time  that  arm  tighter,  heavier.  His  face 
seemed  to  Freda  to  thicken.  She  discovered  that  she 
hated  it.  Abruptly  she  wrenched  herself  free.  But  he 
followed  her  and  unfortunately  she  had  gone  to  an  even 
darker  corner. 

He  pulled  her  to  him  and  kissed  her.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  done  it  and  it  seemed  to  exhilarate  him. 

There  followed  one  of  the  worst  half  hours  of  Freda's 
life.  She  kept  wondering  what  had  happened  to  the 
others.  She  was  conscious  of  herself  growing  disheveled. 
She  realized  that  he  was  in  earnest,  that  he  was  excited 
past  his  own  control. 

In  desperation  she  cried  at  him — 

"But  I  don't  care  for  you  at  all/* 

"That  makes  it  more  interesting  to  a  man,"  said  Ted, 
gallantly.    "Anyway,  I'll  never  give  up." 

"And,"  thought  Freda,  suddenly,  with  directness,  "he 
hasn't  said  one  word  about  marrying."  With  a  kind 
of  vague  desire  to  sound  the  situation  fully,  she  said — 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  marry  you?" 

The  drinking  that  Ted  had  done  had  not  improved  his 
keenness  of  wit.    He  laughed. 

"I  think  you  could  almost  make  me  do  that,"  he 
answered,  "but  what's  the  use  of  marrying?  What  we 
want  is  love — you  know.  I  sized  you  up  at  the  start. 
Freda — you  wonderful  girl — let  me  tell  you — " 

What  he  told  her,  the  outlines  of  his  plan,  struck  Freda 
with  impersonal  clearness.  She  had  an  odd  sense  of 
watching  the  scene  from  the  outside,  as  an  observer  who 
jeered  at  her  a  little  for  being  implicated.  Similar  scenes 
she  had  read  about  ran  through  her  mind.  She  thought 
of  Ann  Veronica  and  Mr.  Ramage.     "He  hasn't  gone 


94  Spellbinders 

quite  far  enough  for  me  to  actually  fight  him,"  she 
thought — and  then — "I  ought  to  ring  for  a  servant  or 
something — that's  what's  always  done.  I'm  being 
insulted.  I  ought  to  either  faint  or  beat  him.  I'm 
interested.    Isn't  it  shocking !"  , 

Above  all  these  almost  subconscious  thoughts  her  mind 
dealt  with  practicalities.  She  wondered  where  the  others 
were.  She  must  get  out  of  the  house  early  in  the 
morning.  She  wondered  if  Ted  would  keep  this  up  even 
if  the  others  came  in. 

She  tried  to  get  to  the  door  but  her  movement  towards 
escape  roused  him  further.  It  had  evidently  never  en- 
tered his  head  that  she  really  meant  to  rebuff  him.  He 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"So  you  see,  beautiful,  how  easy  the  whole  thing  will 
be—"   " 

He  was  growing  noisy  and  she  realized  that  she  did 
not  want  the  servants  to  hear.  After  all  it  wasn't  her 
house.  She  saw  that  they  had  been  alone  for  an  hour. 
It  was  past  two.  And  then  to  her  immense  relief  she 
heard  the  limousine  outside. 

"The  others  are  here,"  she  said  to  him. 

"Damn  the  others,"  he  said  mumblingly,  and,  without 
apology,  forced  himself  into  his  overcoat.  In  the  hall 
he  seemed  to  recover  himself.  Perhaps  his  sense  of 
social  convention  struggled  and  overcame  his  amorous- 
ness temporarily.  He  went  out,  past  the  entering  girls, 
vaguely  speaking  rather  at  them  than  to  them. 

Nothing  of  what  happened  after  that  seemed  quite 
real  to  Freda.  She  was  fairly  worn  out  from  her  trying 
day  and  hour  of  struggle  and  embarrassment.  As  she 
stood  for  a  minute  by  a  long  window  trying  to  collect 
her  thoughts,  she  heard  the  girls  at  the  door  and  it  flashed 
through  her  mind  to  ease  the  disgust  from  her  own  mind 


An  Ugly  Glimpse  95 

by  telling  the  whole  business.  She  knew  how  frankly 
these  girls  talked  of  such  things  among  themselves. 

They  came  in,  Barbara  leading.  With  a  quick,  sharp 
movement  Barbara  turned  on  all  the  lights  and  as  if  in 
a  spotlight  the  disarrayed  parts  of  the  room  seemed  to 
stand  out,  the  rug  in  which  Ted's  foot  had  caught  and 
which  he  had  kicked  aside,  the  several  chairs  at  unfamiliar 
angles,  the  divan  all  tossed,  with  pillows  crushed — most 
of  all  Freda  herself,  hair  somewhat  disheveled,  cheeks 
angrily  flushed.  Allie  looked  a  little  queer  as  she  gazed 
around.  Barbara,  after  one  scornful  glance,  never  took 
her  eyes  off  Freda. 

"So  you  brought  him  here?" 

"Brought  him?     Ted?     Where  were  the  rest  of  you?" 

"You  knew  where  we  were.  We  said  where  we  were 
going.  We  waited  and  waited  at  the  Hebley's.  Every 
one  was  wondering  where  you'd  gone.  You  and  Ted 
Smillie — at  two  o'clock.  But  I  didn't  really  think  you'd 
have  the  audacity  to  make  my  mother's  house  the  scene 
of  your — " 

The  awful  thing,  thought  Freda,  is  that  she  doesn't 
believe  that.  But  she's  going  to  pretend  she  believes  it 
and  it's  just  as  bad  as  if  she  did.  Some  one  had  let  her 
in  for  this.  It  looks  exactly  as  if — she  looked  around 
and  the  color  swept  her  face  again. 

"You  shameless  girl!"  Barbara  went  viciously  on. 
"If  my  mother  was  here  you  wouldn't  dare  have  done  it. 
To  think  that  we  have  to  stay  in  the  same  house — to  think 
— come  Allie — " 

But  Freda  was  roused,  infuriated.  The  scorn  of  her 
own  position,  a  position  which  allowed  her  to  be  insulted 
by  such  a  person,  rose  above  all  else.  She  flung  her  cloak 
around  her. 


96  Spellbinders 

"I  wouldn't  stay  in  your  house  another  night,"  she 
cried,  "if  I  have  to  sleep  on  a  park  bench  all  night." 

The  front  door  closed  after  her.  As  she  reached  the 
sidewalk  she  heard  the  door  open  again,  her  name  called 
cautiously,  heard  the  latch  slipped.  They  were  leaving 
the  door  open.     As  if  she  would  go  back — 

She  went  through  the  streets  swiftly. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ADVENTURE 


ALL  the  time,  under  that  motivating  anger  and 
determination  not  to  go  back,  ran  the  two  threads 
of  thought — one  quickly  sifting  the  practicalities  of  a 
situation  for  a  bare  headed  young  girl  in  the  streets  of 
a  city  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  other  analyzing, 
jeering  at  the  melodrama  of  her  position. 

"It's  a  warm  night,"  she  thought,  "I'll  probably  get 
nothing  but  a  terrific  cold  in  my  head  if  I  do  sit  in 
Lincoln  Park  all  night.  That  young  devil !  She  planned 
all  that.  She  deliberately  didn't  tell  Ted  they  were  not 
coming  straight  home.  There's  no  way  of  proving  it. 
I'd  like  to  bring  her  to  her  knees.  I'll  probably  meet 
some  fool  policeman.  How  it  will  embarrass  mother  if 
this  gets  about.  It's  an  ugly  mess  if  I  don't  do  things 
right.  Nice  ending  to  this  visit.  I  knew  the  whole  thing 
was  bound  to  be  disastrous.  It  was  all  a  fake  trip.  That 
girl  hated  me  from  the  start.  As  if  I  wanted  that  young 
fool." 

She  was  walking  in  the  direction  of  the  park,  past 
the  long  iron  fences,  the  smooth  sloping  terraces  which 
characterized  the  Brownley  part  of  the  city.  The  street 
was  absolutely  quiet.  Street  lamps  seemed  very  bright 
as  she  passed  them.  Here  and  there  a  light  gleamed  in 
a  house,  a  night  light  behind  an  iron  grilled  door.  Her 
footsteps  seemed  to  resound  with  disastrous  noise.  She 
felt  the  sound  of  her  walking  was  a  disturbance  of  the 

97 


98  Spellbinders 

peace,  an  affront  to  the  quiet  of  everything  about  her. 
She  hurried,  trying  to  feel  as  if  she  were  called  out  by 
illness,  imagining  what  she  would  say  if  accosted,  a  little 
cooler  of  anger  and  beginning  to  be  enthralled  and 
intrigued  by  her  own  adventure. 

Angry  as  she  was,  there  was  a  thrill  in  the  circum- 
stances. She  was  sure  she  would  not  go  back  to  the 
Brownley  house  and  that  resolve  was  backed  perhaps 
by  her  interest  in  what  might  happen — what  adventure 
might  be  awaiting  her.  Quite  fearless  and  untroubled 
by  any  physical  nervousness,  her  only  anxiety  was  that 
she  was  not  quite  sure  of  how  to  meet  any  eventuality. 
But  the  night  was  hers.  For  a  few  hours  she  was 
thrown  upon  its  mercy,  and  it  exhilarated  her,  as  if  she 
had  been  released  from  annoying  restraints.  In  her  rush 
from  the  Brownley  house  she  had  satisfied  a  host  of 
petty  feelings  which  had  been  accumulating  for  weeks. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  broken  through  a  horde  of  petty 
conventions  which  had  been  gaining  a  hold  on  her.  She 
felt  more  herself  than  she  had  yet  felt  in  the  city.  As 
she  went  along  she  almost  forgot  Barbara. 

The  park  was  still.  The  iron  benches  had  long  ago 
been  deserted  by  even  the  last  of  the  romantic  couples. 
The  policeman  had  evidently  left  the  park  for  the  night. 
Freda  sat  on  a  bench  under  a  tree  and  tucked  her  feet 
under  her  to  keep  warm. 

^Good  thing  mother  insisted  on  an  interlining  in  this 
coat,"  she  said  to  herself. 

She  heard  the  clock  in  Trinity  High  School  sound 
half  past  two,  after  what  seemed  a  long  time.  She  was 
already  chilled  and  cramped.  Then  she  heard  a  sound 
of  voices  and  looked  up  to  see  two  men  on  the  far  side 
of  the  park,  half  a  block  away.  It  made  her  a  little 
apprehensive.     She  suddenly  felt  a  little  unable  to  cope 


Adventure  99 

with  two  of  them.  Two  had  no  romantic  possibilities. 
If  it  had  been  one  wanderer — 

Hurriedly  getting  up,  she  slipped  through  the  shadows 
and  cleared  the  park,  thankful  that  her  coat  was  dark. 

"Well,  then,  I  must  walk,"  she  said,  trying  to  reassure 
herself  by  her  own  voice.  Her  feet  were  very  cold  and 
a  little  damp  in  their  thin  slippers.     They  hurt. 

For  a  minute  she  considered  going  to  Mrs.  Flandon's 
house.  But  she  abandoned  that  idea.  Mrs.  Flandon 
wasn't  the  sort  of  person  she  wanted  to  know  about  all 
this.  She'd  think  she  was  such  a  fool.  It  might  hurt 
her  chances  of  getting  that  place.  Did  she  want  that 
place,  she  queried  and  kept  her  mind  fixed  on  that  for  a 
little,  sliding  into  a  dream  of  what  she  might  do  and 
how  she  might  confound  Barbara  Brownley. 

By  this  time  her  walking  had  become  fairly  aimless. 
She  had  come  through  the  residence  district  where  she 
had  been  living,  into  a  street  of  tall  apartment  houses. 
Here  and  there  in  the  windows  of  these  buildings  lights 
still  gleamed.  Freda  tried  to  amuse  herself  by  wonder- 
ing what  was  happening  there,  tried  to  forget  her  painful 
feet.    Then  she  met  her  second  adventurer. 

He  was  walking  very  fast,  his  head  up,  and  he  rounded 
a  corner  so  abruptly  that  she  had  no  time  to  avoid  him. 
As  if  he  had  hardly  sensed  her  presence  he  passed  her, 
then  she  heard  his  steps  cease  to  resound  and  knew  he 
was  turning  to  look  at  her.  He  did  more,  he  followed 
her.  In  a  few  strides  he  had  caught  up  with  her  and 
Freda,  turning  her  head,  gave  him  a  look  meant  to  be 
fraught  with  dignity  but  which  turned  out  to  be  only 
very  angry.     The  man  laughed. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  said,  "if  you  look  like  that,  maybe 
there  is  something  I  can  do  for  you.  I  wasn't  sure  of 
what  sort  of  person  you  were.     But  I  see  now." 


100  Spellbinders 

His  voice  was  rich  and  clear  and  pleasant.  Freda 
could  not  see  what  he  looked  like  but  she  could  tell  he 
was  young,  and  he  did  not  sound  dangerous. 

"Please  don't  bother  me,"  she  said,  "I'm  just — out 
for  a  walk." 

"I  hope  you're  near  home,"  he  answered. 

Freda  couldn't  resist  it. 

"I'm  just  exactly  a  hundred  and  thirty-nine  miles 
from  home." 

He  tried  to  see  her  closely  but  her  head  was  down. 

"No,  you're  not  crazy,"  he  commented,  "so  there 
must  be  a  story  or  a  mystery  to  you.  Can  I  walk  home 
with  you — the  hundred  and  thirty-nine  miles?" 

"It's  too  far — and  I'm  really  better  alone." 

"Please.  I'm  not  in  the  least  dangerous  and  I  don't 
want  to  annoy  you.  But  you  must  admit  that  a  young 
woman  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  ought  to  let  some- 
body accompany  her  on  such  prodigious  walks.  I'm 
out  for  one  myself.     I'd  enjoy  it." 

He  talked  like  an  Englishman — or  an  Irishman,  thought 
Freda.  And  why  shouldn't  she  talk  to  him.  It  was  all 
too  ridiculous  anyway.     But  rather  exciting. 

"I'm  in  a  very  silly  mess,"  she  told  him,  "and  I  haven't 
any  place  to  go  to-night." 

"And  you  wish  I'd  mind  my  own  business?" 

"No — but  there's  nothing  you  can  do.  I'm  not  in 
the  least  a  tragedy.  In  the  morning  I  can  straighten 
things  out.  I  haven't  committed  any  murders  or  any- 
thing like  that.  But  I  said  I  wouldn't  go  back  to-night, 
and  I  won't." 

The  young  man  considered. 

"Is  it  by  any  chance  a  husband  to  whom  you  made 
that  statement?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Freda  laughed.  "It  wasn't  a  husband  or 
even  a  father.    It  was  just  a  girl." 


Adventure  101 

"Well,  you're  a  bit  thinly  clad  to  carry  out  your  high 
resolve." 

She  shivered. 

"Nights  are  longer  than  I  thought." 

"Oh,  you're  right  there,"  said  he,  "nights  can  stretch 
themselves  out  to  infinity.  However,  we  must  shorten 
this  one  for  you.  I'd  just  as  soon  do  it  by  conversation 
but  your  slippers — don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  back 
— for  this  one  night?" 

"I  couldn't." 

"Well,  I  approve  of  high  resolves  myself.  I'm  used 
to  them  and  seeing  people  offer  themselves  up  on  their 
altar.  There's  no  real  reason  why  you  should  give  in 
on  any  position  you  took,  just  because  the  sun  is  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world.  Could  you  tell  me  a  bit  more, 
maybe?  If  names  mean  anything  to  you  at  this  hour 
of  the  night,  mine's  Gregory  Macmillan.  I  don't  live 
here.  I'm  staying  at  some  hotel  or  other  and  I  came 
here  on  business — that's  what  you  always  say  in  the 
States,  isn't  it,  when  you  give  an  account  of  yourself?" 

"You're  English." 

"Oh,  God  forbid,"  he  cried,  "English !  You  insult  me 
— but  you  don't  mean  to.  No — Irish,  Irish,  Irish — I 
should  have  said  it  first  and  have  been  spared  that 
accusation." 

"I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  know  what  your  accent  was.  I 
see  now.     It  was  stupid  of  me." 

He  laughed  at  her.  "It's  no  matter.  You're  a  very 
young  woman,  aren't  you?  I  can  tell  from  your  voice. 
Well,  you  don't  want  to  wander  further  with  an  Irish 
adventurer,  do  you  ?" 

"I  can't  help  myself." 

"Let's  get  down  to  facts.    You  quarreled." 

"Hardly  that.  I  tell  you  it's  a  silly  business.  A 
drunk  young  man — a  vicious  girl  who  chanced  to  be  my 


102  Spellbinders 

hostess  said  things.  So  I  walked  out  of  her  house.  I 
can't  go  back  without  crawling  back,  can  I?" 

"No — you  can't  go  back  if  you'd  have  to  crawl.  But 
where  else  can  you  go?  Haven't  you  some  friend — 
some  intimate?" 

"No — I  can't  disturb  families  at  this  hour — and  I 
only  know  people  here  a  little." 

"Isn't  there  perhaps  some  single  lady?  Some  un- 
married woman  to  whom  you  could  turn  ?  At  this  hour 
of  the  night  it  may  be  easier,  you  know,  than  at  dawn. 
And  you're  dressed  for  the  evening.  Of  course  we 
might  go  back  to  my  hotel.  Let's  see — a  motor  accident 
might  do.  No — that  would  involve  things.  You're  sure 
you  don't  know  some  discreet  spinster?" 

She  thought. 

"I've  only  been  here  three  weeks.  Only  perhaps  Miss 
Duffield— ?" 

He  started. 

"You  don't  mean  Margaret  Duffield?  You  know  her? 
Why,  of  course,  she's  the  very  one.     Do  you  mean  her?" 

"And  you  know  her  too  ?" 

"Know  her?  I  have  been  talking  with  her  until  an 
hour  ago.  You  mystic  child,  of  course  you'd  know 
Margaret.  Come,  let's  go  to  her  and  she'll  tell  me  about 
you — and  I'll  get  a  chance  to  see  her  again  to-night 
even — and  perhaps,  with  you  in  charge,  she'll  want  to 
see  me." 

Freda  was  enchanted.  Her  feet  were  forgotten. 
Barbara  was  forgotten.  The  night,  the  delicious  hour, 
the  stranger  who  was  chivalric  and  mysterious  and  knew 
Margaret  Duffield, — all  of  it  was  rounding  out  a  perfect 
adventure.     She  laughed  in  sheer  delight. 

"Isn't  it  marvelous?"  she  asked,  "this  meeting  you — 
you  knowing  the  only  person  I  could  go  to,  isn't  it  curious 
and  like  a  well-made  dream?" 


Adventure  103 

He  took  her  by  the  arm,  holding  her  up  a  little  as  they 
crossed  the  cobbled  street. 

"Life  at  its  best  is  only  a  well-made  dream/'  he 
answered. 

In  all  her  life  Freda  had  never  met  any  one  who  dared 
to  talk  like  that. 

It  was  three  o'clock  but  the  light  in  Margaret's  apart- 
ment still  burned.  Little  lines  of  it  streamed  out  from 
the  curtain  edges.     At  sight  of  the  light  Gregory  stopped. 

"Lucky  it's  on  the  ground  floor,"  he  said,  "she  can 
let  us  in  without  any  of  the  others  hearing  us  tramp  by." 

Freda  hung  back  a  little. 

"It's  rather  an  outrageous  thing  to  do.  I  wonder  if 
I  should." 

"Nonsense.  Anyway,  you've  no  choice.  I'm  bringing 
my  refugee  here  myself." 

They  tiptoed  into  the  little  hallway  and  rang  her  bell — 
then  went  over  by  her  door.  It  was  characteristic  of 
Margaret  that  she  did  not  call,  "Who's  there?"  from 
behind  the  door.  She  opened  her  door  a  little  and  looked 
out. 

"It's  I,"  said  Gregory,  softly,  "and  a  distressed  lady, 
whom  you  know.     Can  we  come  in?" 

The  door  opened  wider  and  Margaret  put  out  her 
hand  as  Freda  shrunk  back  a  little. 

"Why,  Freda — where  did  you  come  from  ?"  Margaret 
looked  at  Gregory,  but  he  waited  for  Freda  to  tell  her 
own  story,  perhaps  not  knowing  how  much  she  wanted 
to  tell. 

In  the  light  again,  Freda  had  blushed  scarlet  and  then 
turned  pale,  her  cheeks  wonderfully  waxen  and  lustrous 
from  the  night  air.  Under  her  eyes  there  were  circles  of 
fatigue  and  her  hair  had  clung  to  her  head,  damp  from 
moisture.  She  looked  at  Margaret  and  seemed  to 
remember  that  her  adventure  had  begun  in  disaster. 


104  Spellbinders 

"I'm  so  sorry  to  bother  you  like  this — I'm  so  sorry. 
But  he  said  I'd  better." 

Again  Margaret  exchanged  glances  with  Gregory. 
Gregory  was  looking  at  Margaret  now  as  if  he  were 
conscious  of  the  picture  she  made  in  the  blue  Grecian 
negligee  which  suited  that  slim,  straight  figure  so  well. 
But  if  she  noticed  his  glance,  she  was  impatient  of  it. 

"Of  course  it's  no  question  of  bother — but  what  is  it?" 

Freda  had  made  no  move  to  drop  her  cloak.  She  held 
it  close  around  her  as  she  stood  against  the  inside  of  the 
door. 

She  told  them  as  much  as  she  could. 

"I  couldn't  go  back." 

The  eyes  of  her  hearers  were  angry. 

"Of  course  you  couldn't,"  said  Margaret,  simply. 
"And  you  can  perfectly  well  spend  the  night  here.  In 
the  morning  I'll  send  for  your  clothes." 

She  drew  Freda,  who  was  shivering  now,  over  on  the 
couch,  then  turned  to  Gregory. 

"Good  night,  Gregory — again.  You  bring  adventure 
with  you." 

There  was  a  smile  in  her  eyes  which  he  seemed  to 
answer  by  a  look  in  his  own.  Then  he  looked  past  her 
to  Freda. 

"Good  night,  little  wanderer.     I'll  see  you  to-morrow." 

Freda  saw  him  fully  now.  He  was  tall  and  thin  and 
ugly.  His  dark  eyes  seemed  to  flash  from  caverns  above 
his  high  cheekbones.  But  he  had  a  wide  Irish  mouth  and 
it  smiled  very  tenderly  at  them  both  as  he  softly  went  out. 

Freda  would  not  take  Margaret's  little  couch  bed  for 
herself  so  Margaret  had  to  improvise  a  bed  on  the  floor 
for  her  guest,  a  bed  of  blankets  and  coats  and  Freda  slept 
in  Margaret's  warm  bath  robe.  Oddly,  she  slept  far 
better  than  did  Margaret,  who,  for  a  long  while,  held 
herself  stiffly  on  one  side  that  her  turning  might  not 
disturb  Freda. 


Adventure  105 


They  both  wakened  early.  Freda  found  the  taste  of 
stale  adventure  in  her  mind  a  little  flat  and  disagreeable. 
There  were  a  number  of  things  to  be  done.  Margaret 
telephoned  briefly  to  the  Brownley  house,  left  word  with 
a  servant  that  Miss  Thorstad  had  spent  the  night  with 
her. 

"I'll  go  up  there  after  we  have  some  breakfast,"  she 
said  to  Freda,  "and  get  you  some  clothes.  Then  I  think 
you'd  better  stay  here  with  me.  I'll  ask  the  landlady  to 
put  an  extra  cot  in  here  and  we  can  be  comfortable  for 
a  few  days.  And  please  don't  talk  of  inconvenience" — 
she  forestalled  Freda's  objections  with  her  smile — "I'll 
love  to  have  company.  If  you  stay  in  town  we'll  see  if 
you  can't  get  a  place  of  your  own  in  the  building  here. 
Lots  of  apartments  have  a  vacant  room  to  let." 

She  was  preparing  breakfast  with  Freda's  help  and  the 
younger  girl's  spirits  were  rising  steadily  even  though  the 
thought  of  an  interview  with  Barbara  remained  dragging. 
It  was  great  fun  for  Freda — the  freedom  of  this  tiny 
apartment  with  its  bed  already  made  into  a  daytime  couch, 
the  eggs  cooking  over  a  little  electric  grill  on  the  table 
and  the  table  set  with  a  scanty  supply  of  dishes — two 
tall  glasses  of  milk,  rolls  and  marmalade. 

"It's  so  nice,  living  like  this,"  she  exclaimed. 

Margaret  laughed. 

"Then  the  Brownley  luxury  hasn't  quite  seduced  you?" 

"I  was  excited  by  it.  I'm  afraid  it  did  seduce  me 
temporarily.  But  for  the  last  week  something's  been 
wrong  with  me.  And  this  was  it.  I  wanted  to  get  out 
of  the  machinery.  They  leave  you  alone  and  all  that — 
but  it's  so  ordered — so  planned.  Everything's  planned 
from  the  menus  to  the  social  life.  They  try  to  do  novel 
things  by  standing  on  their  heads  sometimes  in  their  own 


106  Spellbinders 

grooves — at  least  the  girls  do — but  really  they  get  no 
freshness  or  freedom,  do  they  ?" 

"I  should  say  that  particular  crowd  didn't.  Of  course 
you  mustn't  confound  all  wealthy  people  with  them. 
They're  better  than  some  but  a  great  deal  less  interesting 
than  the  best  of  the  wealthy.  And  of  course  just  because 
their  life  doesn't  happen  to  appeal  to  your  temperament — 
or  mine — " 

"Are  you  always  so  perfectly  balanced?"  asked  Freda, 
so  admiringly  as  to  escape  impertinence. 

"I  wish  I  were  ever  balanced,"  answered  Margaret. 
"And  now  suppose  you  tell  me  a  little  more  about  what 
happened  so  I'll  be  sure  how  I  had  better  take  things  up 
with  the  Brownley  girls." 

Freda  had  been  thinking. 

"It  really  began  with  me,"  she  said.  "Ted  Smillie  was 
Barbara's  man  and  I  was  flattered  when  he  noticed  me. 
And  of  course  I  liked  him — then — so  I  let  it  go  on  and 
she  hated  me  for  that." 

"Stop  me  if  I  pry — but  do  you  care  for  the  young  man 
now  ?" 

"Oh — no!"  cried  Freda.  "I'm  just  mortally  ashamed 
of  myself  for  letting  myself  in  as  much  as  I  did." 

"Everybody  does." 

Margaret's  remark  brought  other  ideas  into  Freda's 
mind.  She  remembered  Gregory  Macmillan  and  his 
apparent  intimacy  with  Margaret.  But  she  asked  noth- 
ing, going  on,  under  Margaret's  questioning,  with  her 
tale  of  the  night  before,  and  as  they  came  to  the  part 
of  Gregory's  intervention,  Margaret  vouchsafed  no 
information. 

An  hour  later,  she  came  back  from  the  Brownley  house, 
with  Freda's  suitcase  beside  her  in  a  taxi. 

"You  did  give  them  a  bad  night,"  she  said  to  Freda, 
"Bob  Brownley  looks  a  wreck.     It  appears  that  later  they 


Adventure  107 

went  out  to  search  the  park — scared  stiff  for  you.  And 
you  had  gone.     They  saw  some  men  and  were  terrified." 

"Are  they  very  angry  ?" 

"Barbara  tried  to  stay  on  her  high  horse.  Said  that 
although  it  was  possible  she  had  misunderstood  the 
situation  it  looked  very  compromising  and  she  thought 
it  her  duty  in  her  mother's  absence — .  Of  course,  she 
said,  she  was  sorry  that  matters  had  developed  as  they 
had.  Poor  Allie'd  evidently  been  thinking  you'd  been 
sewed  up  in  a  bag  and  dropped  in  the  river.  They  both 
want  to  let  the  thing  drop  quickly  and  I  said  they  could 
say  that  you  were  staying  with  me  for  the  remainder 
of  your  visit.  I  also  told  Barbara  a  few  home  truths 
about  herself,  and  advised  her  to  be  very  careful  what 
she  said  to  her  mother  or  I  might  take  it  up  with  her 
parents." 

"All  this  trouble  for  me!"  cried  Freda.  "I  am 
ashamed !" 

"Nonsense.  But  I  must  go  along  quickly  now.  I've 
a  meeting.  Your  trunk  will  be  along  sometime  this 
morning.  Put  it  wherever  you  like  and  the  landlady  will 
send  the  janitor  up  with  a  cot.  And — by  the  way — if 
Gregory  Macmillan  drops  in,  tell  him  I'm  engaged  for 
lunch,  will  you?  You  might  have  lunch  with  him,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

"I  feel  aghast  at  meeting  him." 

"Don't  let  any  lack  of  conventions  bother  you  with 
Gregory.  The  lack  of  them  is  the  best  recommendation 
in  his  eyes.  He's  a  wild  Irish  poet.  I'll  tell  you  about 
him  to-night.  I  think  you'll  like  him,  Freda.  He's  the 
kindest  person  I  know — and  as  truthful  as  his  imagination 
will  let  him  be." 

"What  is  he  in  St.  Pierre  for?" 

"Oh,  ask  him — "  said  Margaret,  departing. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WORK  FOR  FREDA 


IT  was  on  that  morning  that  Gage  Flandon  made  his 
last  appeal  to  his  wife  not  to  let  herself  be  named 
as  a  candidate  for  Chicago  at  the  State  Convention. 
He  had  been  somewhat  grim  since  the  district  conven- 
tion. As  Margaret  had  realized  would  happen,  certain 
men  had  approached  him,  thinking  to  please  him  by- 
sounding  the  rumor  about  sending  his  wife  to  the 
National  Convention.  Many  of  them  felt  and  Gage 
knew  they  felt  that  he  had  started,  or  arranged  to  have 
started,  a  rumor  that  his  wife  would  be  a  candidate  and 
that  he  meant  to  capitalize  the  entrance  of  women  into 
politics  by  placing  his  own  wife  at  the  head  of  the 
woman's  group  in  the  State.  It  was  a  natural  enough 
conclusion  and  its  very  naturalness  made  Gage  burn  with 
a  slow,  violent  anger  that  was  becoming  an  obsession.  It 
began  of  course  with  the  revolt  against  that  suspicion  of 
baseness  that  he  could  capitalize  the  position  of  his  wife — 
that  he  could  use  a  relation,  which  was  to  him  so  sacred, 
to  strengthen  his  own  position.  Yet,  when  these  men 
<came  with  their  flattery  he  could  not  cry  down  Helen 
without  seeming  to  insult  her.  There  was  only  one  way, 
he  saw,  and  that  was  for  Helen  herself  to  withdraw.  If 
she  did  not,  it  was  clear  that  she  would  be  sent. 

So  he  had  besought  and  seemed  to  always  beseech  her 
with  the  wrong  arguments.  He  knew  he  had  said  trite 
things,  things  about  women  staying  out  of  politics,  the 

108 


Work  for  Freda  109 

unsuitability  of  her  nature  for  such  things,  but  he  had 
felt  their  triteness  infused  with  such  painful  conviction 
in  his  own  mind  that  it  continually  amazed  him  to  see 
how  little  response  he  awoke  in  her. 

She  had  said  to  him,  "You  exaggerate  it  so,  Gage. 
Why  make  such  a  mountain  out  of  a  molehole?  I'm 
not  going  to  neglect  you  or  the  children.  I'll  probably 
not  be  elected  anyhow.  But  why  not  regard  it  as  a 
privilege  and  an  honor  and  let  me  try?" 

"But  why  do  you  want  to  try?" 

She  looked  as  if  she  too  were  trying  vainly  to  make 
him  understand. 

"I'd  like  to  do  something  myself,  Gage — something  as 
myself." 

"You  were  content  without  politics  two  months  ago." 

"I've  changed — why  begrudge  me  my  enthusiasm?" 

"Because  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  a  waster  like  the  rest 
of  the  women.  Because  you're  so  different.  Everything 
about  you  is  true  and  sound,  dear,  and  when  you  start 
deliberately  using  yourself  for  political  effect,  don't  you 
see  how  you  become  untrue?  There's  nothing  in  it,  I 
tell  you.  The  whole  thing's  cut  and  dried.  There's  no 
big  issue.  If  the  women  want  to  send  some  one,  let  them 
choose  some  other  figurehead!" 

He  had  not  meant  it  so  but  of  course  he  seemed  dis- 
paraging her. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  rather  frigidly,  "perhaps  I'll  not 
be  such  a  figurehead  as  you  think." 

"But  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that  to  hurt  you." 

"I'm  not  sure  what  you  do  mean.  It  seems  to  me 
we're  actually  childish.  You've  chosen,  quite  deliberately, 
to  be  a  reactionary  in  all  this  woman's  progress  movement. 
I'm  sorry.  But  there  is  a  loyalty  one  has  to  women, 
Gage,  beside  the  loyalty  one  has  to  a  husband  and  I  really 


110  Spellbinders 

cannot  share  your  prejudice  against  progress,  as  it  applies 
to  women/' 

The  unexpressed  things  in  Gage's  mind  fairly  tore  at 
him. 

"If  you  really  had  one  sensible  objection,  Gage — " 

"There's  just  one  objection,"  he  said,  doggedly,  "you 
desecrate  yourself.  Not  by  entering  politics  particularly. 
But  by  using  yourself  that  way.  You  mutilate  your 
sex." 

She  did  not  get  angry.  But  she  put  one  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  they  looked  at  each  other  helplessly. 

"Don't  you  see,"  said  Helen,  "that  I  want,  like  these 
other  women,  to  once  in  a  while  do  something  that's 
clean  of  sex?     That's  just  me — without  sex?" 

His  eyes  grew  very  hard.  She  struck  almost  mortally 
at  the  very  thing  he  loved  most.  And  he  moved  away, 
as  if  to  remove  himself  definitely. 

"I'm  sorry  you  feel  so.  It's  a  pleasant  remark  for  a 
man's  wife  to  fling  at  him." 

Irony  was  so  unusual  in  Gage  that  Helen  stood  looking 
after  him  after  he  went  out  of  the  room.  Her  mind 
ached  with  the  struggle,  ached  from  the  assertion  of  this 
new  determination  of  hers.  Never  had  she  wanted  so 
to  give  him  comfort  and  be  comforted  herself.  She  saw 
the  weeks  ahead — weeks  of  estrangement — possibly  a 
permanent  estrangement.  Yet  she  knew  she  would  go 
on.  It  wasn't  just  wanting  to  go  on.  She  had  to  go 
on.  There  was  a  principle  involved  even  if  he  could  not 
see  it.  Clearer  and  clearer  she  had  seen  her  necessity 
in  these  past  two  weeks.  She  had  to  waken  her  own 
individuality.  She  had  to  live  to  herself  alone  for  a  little. 
She  had  to  begin  to  build  defences  against  sex. 

Gage  was  right.  Margaret  had  sown  the  seed  in  his 
wife.  Helen  had  not  watched  her  for  nothing.  She  had 
seen  the  way  that  Margaret  made  no  concessions  to  her- 


Work  for  Freda  111 

self  as  a  woman,  fiercely  as  she  was  working  for  the 
establishment  of  woman's  position.  It  seemed  paradox- 
ical but  there  it  was.  If  you  were  truly  to  work  for 
woman's  welfare  you  had  to  abandon  all  the  cushions  of 
woman's  protected  position,  thought  Helen — you  couldn't 
rest  back  on  either  wifehood  or  motherhood.  You 
couldn't  be  lazy.  You  had  to  make  yourself  fully  your- 
self. 

Here  was  her  chance.  She  hadn't  wanted  it  but  they 
had  insisted.  The  women  wanted  her  to  go  to  Chicago — 
not  because  she  was  Mrs.  Flandon  but  because  she,  was 
Helen  Flandon,  herself.  A  little  quiver  of  delight  ran 
through  Helen  as  she  thought  of  it.  She  would  see  it 
through.  Gage  would  surely  not  persist  in  his  feeling. 
Surely  he  would  change.  He  would  be  glad  when  she 
proved  more  than  just  his  wife. 

She  had  a  strange  feeling  of  having  doffed  all  the  years 
which  had  passed  since  she  had  left  college,  a  feeling  of 
youth  and  energy  which  had  often  dominated  her  then 
but  which  had  changed  in  the  seven  years  of  her  marriage. 
Since  her  marriage  she  had  walked  only  with  Gage  and 
the  children — shared  life  with  them  very  completely. 
Now  it  was  not  that  she  cared  less  for  them  (she  kept 
making  that  very  clear  to  herself)  but  there  was  none 
the  less  a  new  independence  and  new  vigor  about  her. 
She  felt  with  them  but  she  felt  without  them  too. 

It  hurt  her  that  Gage  should  feel  so  injured.  But  her 
exhilaration  was  greater  even  than  the  hurt,  because  she 
could  not  sound  the  depths  of  her  husband's  suffering. 

Gage  went  out  of  the  house  with  no  more  words.  He 
managed  to  focus  his  mind  on  the  work  of  the  day  which 
was  before  him  but  the  basic  feeling  of  pain  and  anger 
persisted. 

In  the  middle  of  the  morning  Helen  called  him,  remind- 
ing him  of  his  promise  to  see  if  Freda  Thorstad  could  be 


112  Spellbinders 

placed.  She  ignored,  as  she  had  a  way  of  doing,  any 
difference  between  them. 

"Are  you  going  to  drag  that  child  in  too?"  he  asked, 
ungraciously,  and  then  conscious  of  his  unfairness  for  he 
knew  quite  well  that  the  object  was  to  place  Freda  so  she 
could  earn  her  own  living,  he  capitulated. 

"Drummond  gets  back  this  afternoon.  Send  Miss 
Thorstad  in  about  four  and  I'll  take  her  to  see  him." 

"You're  a  dear,  Gage,"  Helen  rang  off. 

Gage  tried  to  figure  out  whether  something  had  been 
put  over  him  or  not.  There  he  let  it  go  and  sat  in  at  the 
club  with  a  chosen  crowd  before  lunch.  It  pleased  him 
immensely  to  see  Harry  Harris  stuck  for  the  lunch.  He 
kidded  him,  his  great  laugh  rising  and  falling. 


II 

At  four  Freda  came  and  at  her,  "You're  sure  I'm  not 
too  early,  Mr.  Flandon?"  Gage  felt  further  ashamed  of 
his  ungraciousness.  Freda  was  a  little  pale,  after  her 
difficult  night,  and  it  made  her  rather  more  attractive 
than  ever  to  Gage.  He  thought  she  might  be  worrying 
over  the  chance  of  getting  the  new  work  and  was  eager 
to  make  it  easy  for  her. 

"So  you  want  to  get  into  politics  like  all  the  rest?"  he 
asked,  but  smilingly. 

"I  want  some  work  to  do,"  said  Freda,  "I'd  just  as 
soon  do  anything  else.  But  I  really  will  have  to  work 
or  go  back  to  Mohawk  and  there  isn't  anything  for  me  to 
do  in  Mohawk.  I  don't  much  care  what  I  do,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  Mr.  Flandon,  so  it  is  work.  And  I've  a  theory 
that  I  might  be  better  at  washing  windows  than  doing 
anything  else." 

"This  isn't  much  of  a  job,  you  know." 

"Probably  it's  all  I  could  handle.     I'm  really  a  little 


Work  for  Freda  113 

nervous.    Will  they  ask  for  all  kinds  of  qualifications?" 

"There's  no  'they.'  There's  only  one  man  and  I  think 
all  he  is  looking  for  is  some  one  who  is  discreet  and 
pleasant  and  can  do  ordinary  secretarial  work." 

"I'm  going  to  learn  typewriting  evenings,"  said  Freda. 

It  was  so  pleasant  to  be  free  from  controversial  con- 
versation, or  from  conversation  which  glossed  over 
controversy  that  Gage  found  himself  feeling  much 
warmer  and  more  cheerful  than  he  had  for  days. 
Together  they  walked  over  to  the  office  of  the  man  who 
had  the  district  chairmanship.  Mr.  Drummond  was 
embarrassed.  Clearly  he  was  embarrassed  by  the  neces- 
sity of  refusing  a  favor  Flandon  asked.  But  he  was  put 
to  it. 

They  left  the  office  and  at  the  street  corner  Freda 
stopped  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Pretty  lucky  for  them  that  young  Whitelaw  got  there 
first,  I  fancy." 

"Have  you  something  else  in  mind?" 

"I'll  try  to  find  something.  Maybe  I  can  get  a  place 
as  somebody's  companion.  Or  maybe  Miss  Duffield  will 
know — " 

A  tight  little  line  came  around  Gage's  mouth.  He 
didn't  want  Margaret  Duffield  running  this  girl.  His 
dislike  was  becoming  an  obsession. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  slowly,  "if  you'd  like  to  come  into 
my  office.  I  could  use  another  clerk,  as  a  matter  of 
fact.  I'm  away  a  great  deal  and  I  find  that  since  my 
assistant  has  been  handling  more  law  work  he  is  too  busy 
to  do  things  around  the  office — handling  clients,  sorting 
correspondence  and  such  things.  The  ordinary  stenogra- 
pher just  messes  up  everything  except  a  sheet  of  carbon 
paper,  and  the  last  good  one  I  had  got  married,  of  course. 
There  wouldn't  be  much  in  it — maybe  sixty  a  month,  say 
— but  if  you'd  like  to  try — " 


114  Spellbinders 

Freda  looked  at  him  straightly. 

"If  you're  just  trying  to  find  a  job  for  me,  I'd  rather 
not,  Mr.  Flandon." 

He  liked  that,  and  gave  her  back  honesty. 

"Of  course  I  would  like  to  see  you  fixed.  I  thought 
this  other  thing  would  work  out  better.  But  in  all 
seriousness  I  could  use  another  clerk  in  my  office  and 
I've  been  wondering  whom  I  could  get.  What  do  you 
say  to  trying  it  for  a  month — " 

"Let  me  try  it  for  two  weeks  and  then  if  I  fail,  fire 
me  then.  Only  you'll  surely  fire  me  if  I  don't  earn  my 
money  ?" 

"Surely." 

in 

Gage  went  home  that  night  more  cheerful  than  he  had 
been  for  some  time.  He  had  a  mischievous  sensation 
of  having  rescued  a  brand  from  Margaret  Duffield.  At 
dinner  Helen  asked  him  if  he  had  attended  to  Freda's 
case. 

"Drummond  had  other  arrangements  already." 

"What  a  shame,"  she  said,  "I  wonder  where  we  can 
place  that  girl.  She  is  too  good  to  go  back  and  do 
nothing  in  Mohawk.  And  she  really  wants  to  earn  money 
badly." 

"I  placed  her,"  said  Gage,  hugging  his  mischief  to 
himself. 

"You  did?    Where?" 

"I  took  her  into  my  office." 

Helen  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"You  know  that  she  can't  typewrite?" 

"I  know.  But  I  can  use  her.  She  has  a  good  head 
and — a  nice  influence.  I  think  I'll  like  to  have  her 
around.  Since  she  has  to  work  she'd  be  better  there  than 
grubbing  in  politics." 


Work  for  Freda  115 

"As  if  your  office  wasn't  full  of  politics !" 
"Well  they're  not  Duffield-politics." 
"Whatever  you  mean  by  that  is  obscure,"  said  Helen, 
'but  don't  eat  the  child's  head  off,  will  you?" 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  CLEAN  WIND 

FREDA  felt  that  night  that  all  her  dreams,  all  her 
vague  anticipations  of  doing  were  suddenly  trans- 
lated into  activity  and  reality.  In  the  strangest  way  in 
the  world,  it  seemed  to  her,  so  naive  was  she  about  the 
obscure  ways  of  most  things,  she  had  a  room  of  her 
own  and  a  job  in  St.  Pierre.  Margaret  Duffield  had 
smiled  a  little  at  the  news  of  her  job  but  at  Freda's  quick 
challenge  as  to  whether  she  were  really  imposing  on  Mr. 
Flandon,  Margaret  insisted  that  she  merely  found  Gage 
himself  humorous.  She  did  not  say  why  that  was  so. 
Together  she  and  Freda  went  to  see  the  landlady  about 
a  room  for  Freda.  There  was  one,  it  appeared,  in  an 
apartment  on  the  third  floor.  Freda  could  have  it,  if 
she  took  it  at  once,  and  so  it  was  arranged. 

It  was  a  plain  little  room  with  one  window,  long  and 
thin  like  the  shape  of  the  room,  furnished  sparsely  and 
without  grace,  but  Freda  stood  in  the  midst  of  it  with 
her  head  high  and  a  look  of  wondering  delight  in  her 
eyes,  fingering  her  door  key. 

Later  she  went  down  to  Margaret's  apartment  to  carry 
up  her  suitcase.  She  found  Gregory  there.  He  had  not 
come  for  lunch  as  Margaret  had  warned  her.  Seeing  him 
now  more  clearly  than  she  had  the  night  before,  Freda 
saw  how  cadaverous  his  face  was,  how  little  color  there 
was  in  his  cheeks.     She  thought  he  looked  almost  ill. 

They  did  not  hear  her  come  in.  Gregory  was  sitting 
with  his  eyes  on  Margaret,  telling  her  something  and 

116 


The  Clean  Wind  117 

she  was  listening  in  a  protesting  way.  It  occurred  to 
Freda  that  of  course  they  were  in  love.  She  had 
suspected  it  vaguely  from  their  attitude.  Now  she  was 
sure. 

She  coughed  and  they  looked  up. 

"It's  my  damsel  in  distress,"  said  Gregory,  rising,  "did 
everything  clear  up?     Is  the  ogress  destroyed?" 

"If  she  is,  poor  Miss  Duffield  had  to  do  it."  ¥ 

"She  wouldn't  mind.  She  likes  cruelties.  She's  the 
most  cruel  person — " 

"Hush,  Gregory,  don't  reveal  all  my  soul  on  the  spot." 

"Cruel — and  over  modest.  As  if  a  soul  isn't  always 
better  revealed — " 

"You  can  go  as  far  as  you  like  later.  Just  now  you 
might  carry  Freda's  suitcase  upstairs." 

He  took  the  suitcase  and  followed  them,  entering 
Freda's  little  room  which  he  seemed  to  fill  and  crowd. 

"So  this  is  where  you  take  refuge  from  the  ogress?" 

"It's  more  than  a  refuge — it's  a  tower  of  independence." 

He  looked  at  her  appreciatively. 

"We'll  agree  on  many  things." 

Margaret  asked  Freda  to  come  down  with  them  and 
she  went,  a  little  reluctantly  wondering  if  she  were  not 
crowding  their  kindness.  But  Gregory  insisted  as  well 
as  Margaret. 

Margaret  sat  beside  a  vase  of  roses  on  her  table  and 
Gregory  and  Freda  faced  her,  sitting  on  the  couch-bed. 
The  roses  were  yellow,  pink — delicate,  aloof,  like  Mar- 
garet herself  and  she  made  a  lovely  picture.  Gregory's 
eyes  rested  on  her  a  little  wearily  as  if  he  had  failed  to 
find  what  he  sought  for  in  the  picture.  He  was  silent  at 
first — then,  deftly,  Margaret  drew  him  out  little  by  little 
about  the  Irish  Republic,  and  he  became  different,  a  man 
on  fire  with  an  idea.  Fascinated,  stirred,  Freda  watched 
him,  broke  into  eager  questioning  here  and  there  and  was 


118  Spellbinders 

answered  as  eagerly.  They  were  hot  in  discussion  when 
Walter  Carpenter  came. 

There  was  a  moment  of  embarrassment  as  if  each  of 
the  men  studied  the  other  to  find  out  his  purpose.  Then 
Margaret  spoke  lightly. 

"Do  you  want  to  hear  about  the  Irish  question  from 
an  expert,  Walter  ?" 

"Is  Mr.  Macmillan  an  expert  ?" 

"He's  to  lecture  about  it  on  Friday  night." 

"It's  a  dangerous  subject  for  a  lecture." 

"It's  a  dangerous  subject  to  live  with,"  answered 
Gregory  a  little  defiantly. 

"Are  you  a  Sinn  Feiner,  Macmillan?" 

"I'm  an  Irish  Republican." 

There  was  a  dignity  in  his  tone  which  made  Walter 
feel  his  half -bantering  tone  ill  judged.  He  changed  at 
once. 

"We're  very  ignorant  of  the  whole  question  over  here," 
he  said,  "all  we  have  to  judge  from  is  partisan  literature. 
We  never  get  both  sides." 

"There  is  only  one  side  fit  to  be  heard." 

Freda  gave  a  little  gasp  of  joy  at  that  statement.  It 
brushed  away  all  the  conventions  of  polite  discussion  in 
its  unequivocal  clearness  of  conviction. 

"I  was  sure  of  it,"  she  said. 

Gregory  turned  and  smiled  at  her.  The  four  of  them 
stood,  as  they  had  stood  to  greet  Walter,  Margaret  by 
the  side  of  her  last  guest,  looking  somehow  fitting  there, 
Gregory  and  Freda  together  as  if  in  alliance  against  the 
others.  Then  conversation,  civilities  enveloped  them  all 
again.  But  the  alliances  remained.  Freda  made  no 
secret  of  her  admiration  for  Gregory.  The  openness 
of  his  mind,  the  way  his  convictions  flashed  through  the 
talk  seemed  to  her  to  demand  an  answer  as  fair.  Her 
mind  leapt  to  meet  his. 


The  Clean  Wind  119 

Gregory  Macmillan  was  Irish  born,  of  a  stock  which 
was  not  pure  Irish  for  his  mother  was  an  Englishwoman. 
It  had  been  her  people  who  were  responsible  for  Gregory's 
education,  his  public  school  and  early  Oxford  life.  But 
in  his  later  years  at  Oxford  his  restlessness  and  dis- 
contents had  become  extreme.  Ireland  with  its  tangle 
of  desires,  its  heating  patriotism,  heating  on  the  old  altars 
already  holy  with  martyrs,  had  captured  his  imagination 
and  ambition.  He  had  gone  to  Ireland  and  interested 
himself  entirely  in  the  study  of  Celtic  literature  and  the 
Celtic  language,  living  in  Connacht  and  helping  edit  a 
Gaelic  Weekly.  Then  had  come  the  war,  and  conflict 
for  Gregory.  The  fight  for  Irish  freedom,  try  as  he  did 
to  make  it  his  only  end,  had  become  smaller  beside  the 
great  world  confusion  and,  conquering  his  revulsion  at 
fighting  with  English  forces  he  had  enlisted. 

Before  the  war  Gregory's  verse  had  had  much  favor- 
able comment.  He  came  out  of  the  war  to  find  himself 
notable  among  the  younger  poets,  acclaimed  even  in  the 
United  States.  It  seemed  preposterous  to  him.  The 
machinations  of  the  Irish  Republican  party  absorbed  him. 
Intrigue,  plotting,  all  the  melodrama,  all  the  tragedy  of 
the  Sinn  Fein  policy  was  known  to  him,  fostered  by 
him.  He  had  been  in  prison  and  after  his  release  had 
fallen  ill.  They  had  sent  him  to  convalesce  in  Wales. 
It  was  while  he  was  there  that  there  had  come  an  offer 
from  an  American  lecture  bureau  to  go  on  tour  in  the 
States  telling  of  Irish  literature  and  reading  his  own 
verse.  He  laughed  at  the  idea  but  others  who  heard  the 
offer  had  not  laughed.  He  was  to  come  to  the  States, 
lecture  on  poetry  and  incidentally  see  and  talk  to  various 
important  Americans  who  might  have  Irish  sympathies. 
The  Republic  needed  friends. 

He  came  leluctantly  and  yet,  once  in  New  York,  he 
had  found  so  many  young  literati  to  welcome  him,  to  give 


120  Spellbinders 

him  sympathy  and  hearing  if  not  counsel  that  his  spirits 
had  risen.  And  he  had  met  Margaret  Duffield  and  drawn 
by  her  mental  beauty,  her  curious  cold  virginity,  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  her  and  told  her  he  loved  her.  For  a 
few  ardent  weeks  he  wooed  her,  she  explaining  away  his 
love,  denying  it.  Then  she  had  come  West  and  he  had 
sought  his  lecture  bureau,  making  them  include  a  lecture 
in  this  city  which  held  her.  He  had  come  and  found  her 
colder,  more  aloof  than  ever,  and  now  sitting  in  this 
room  of  hers  he  found  a  quiet,  controlled,  cultivated, 
middle-aged  man  who  seemed  to  be  on  terms  of  easy 
and  intimate  friendship  such  as  he  had  not  attained. 

After  a  little  they  divided  their  conversation.  Mar- 
garet wanted  to  talk  to  Walter  about  some  complication 
in  local  politics — something  affecting  Helen's  election. 
And  Freda  wanted  to  hear  Gregory  talk. 

He  told  her  about  Ireland,  of  the  men  and  women  who 
plotted  secretly  and  constantly  to  throw  off  every  yoke 
of  sovereignty.  He  told  of  the  beauty  of  the  Gaelic 
tongue,  translating  a  phrase  or  two  for  her — talked  of  the 
Irish  poets  and  his  friends  and  she  responded,  finding  use 
now  for  all  the  thoughts  that  had  filled  her  mind,  the 
poems  she  had  read  and  loved.  The  light  in  his  deep  set 
eyes  grew  brighter  as  he  looked  at  the  face  turned  to  his, 
meeting  his  own  enthusiasm  so  unquestioningly.  Once 
he  looked  at  Margaret  curiously.  She  was  deep  in  her 
discussion  and  with  a  glimmer  of  a  smile  in  his  eyes  he 
turned  again  to  Freda. 

At  eleven  he  took  her  to  her  room.  They  went  up  the 
stairs  to  the  door  of  her  apartment. 

"Shall  I  see  you  between  now  and  Friday  night  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  work  to-morrow."  Freda  came  back 
to  that  thought  with  a  jolt.     "I  don't  know." 

"To-morrow  night?  Just  remember  that  I'm  alone 
here — I  don't  know  any  one  but  you  and  Miss  Duffield 


The  Clean  Wind  121 

and  I  don't  want  the  people  in  charge  of  my  lecture  to 
lay  hands  on  me  until  it's  necessary.  You've  no  idea 
what  they  do  to  visiting  lecturers  in  the  provinces?" 

"But  hasn't  Miss  Duffield  plans  for  you?" 

"I  hoped  she  might  have.  But  she's  busy,  as  you  see." 
His  tone  had  many  implications.  "So  I  really  am  lonely 
and  you  made  me  feel  warm  and  welcome  to-night.  You 
aren't  full  of  foolish  ideas  about  friendships  that  progress 
like  flights  of  stairs — step  by  step,  are  you?" 

"Friendships  are — or  they  aren't,"  said  Freda. 

"And  this  one  is,  I  hope?" 

They  heard  a  sigh  within  the  apartment  as  if  a  weary 
soul  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition  were  at  the  end  of 
its  patience.  Gregory  held  out  his  hand  and  turned  to 
go. 

But  Freda  could  not  let  him  go.  She  was  swept  by  a 
sense  of  the  cruel  loneliness  of  this  strange  beautiful  soul, 
in  a  country  he  did  not  know,  pursuing  a  woman  he  did 
not  win.     She  felt  unbearably  pent  up. 

Catching  his  hand  in  both  of  hers,  she  held  it  against 
her  breast,  lifted  her  face  to  his  and  suddenly  surprisingly 
kissed  him.  And,  turning,  she  marched  into  her  room 
with  her  cheeks  aflame  and  her  head  held  high.  Groping 
for  the  unfamiliar  switch  she  turned  on  her  light  and 
began  mechanically  to  undress.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  walking  in  one  of  her  own  storied  imaginings. 
So  many  things  had  happened  in  the  last  twenty-four 
hours  which  she  had  often  dreamed  would  happen  to  her. 
Adventures,  romantic  moments,  meetings  of  strange 
intimate  congeniality  like  this  with  Gregory  Macmillan. 
She  thought  of  him  as  Gregory. 

Gregory  went  down  the  stairs  quickly,  pausing  at 
Margaret's  door  to  say  good  night.  The  other  man  was 
leaving  too  and  they  walked  together  as  far  as  Gregory's 
hotel.     They  were  a  little  constrained  and  kept  their 


122  Spellbinders 

conversation  on  the  most  general  of  subjects.  Gregory 
was  absent  minded  in  his  comments  but  as  he  entered  the 
hotel  lobby  he  was  smiling  a  little,  the  immensely  cheered 
smile  of  the  person  who  has  found  what  he  thought  was 
lost. 

Freda  reported  for  work  at  the  office  of  Sable  and 
Flandon  at  half  past  eight  the  next  morning.  She  had 
not  been  sure  at  what  time  a  lawyer's  office  began 
operations  and  thought  it  best  to  be  early  so  she  had 
to  wait  a  full  hour  before  Mr.  Flandon  came  in.  The 
offices  were  a  large,  well-furnished  suite  of  rooms.  There 
were  three  young  lawyers  in  the  office,  associated  with 
Mr.  Sable  and  Mr.  Flandon,  and  three  stenographers,  in 
addition  to  a  young  woman,  with  an  air  of  attainment, 
who  had  a  desk  in  Mr.  Sable's  office  and  was  known  as 
Mr.  Sable's  personal  secretary.  Freda  got  some  idea 
of  the  organization,  watching  the  girls  come  in  and  take 
up  their  work.  She  became  a  little  dubious  as  to  where 
she  could  fit  into  this  extremely  well-oiled  machinery  and 
wondering  more  and  more  as  to  the  quixotic  whim  which 
had  made  Mr.  Flandon  employ  her,  was  almost  ready  to 
get  up  and  go  out  when  Gage  came  in. 

He  saw  her  in  a  minute  and  showed  no  surprise. 
Instead  he  seemed  to  be  anxious  to  cover  up  any  ambiguity 
in  the  position  by  making  it  very  clear  what  her  duties 
were  to  be.  He  introduced  her  to  the  rest  of  the  office 
force  as  my  "personal  secretary"  at  which  the  Miss 
Brewster  who  held  a  like  position  in  Mr.  Sable's  employ 
lifted  her  eyebrows  a  little.  She  was  given  a  desk  in  a 
little  ante-room  outside  of  Gage's  own  office  and  Gage, 
with  a  stenographer  who  had  done  most  of  his  work, 
went  over  her  duties.  She  was  to  relieve  the  stenographer 
of  all  the  sorting  of  his  correspondence,  take  all  his  tele- 
phone messages,  familiarize  herself  with  all  of  his  affairs 
and  interests  in  so  far  as  she  could  do  so  by  consulting 


The  Clean  Wind  123 

current  files  and  be  ready  to  relieve  him  of  any  routine 
business  she  could,  correcting  and  signing  his  letters  as 
soon  as  possible. 

At  five  o'clock  she  hurried  back  to  her  little  room  to  find 
a  letter  in  her  mail  box.  It  was  from  her  father  and  at 
the  sight  of  it  she  was  saddened  by  the  sense  of  separation 
between  them.  Every  word  in  it,  counsel,  affection, 
humor  breathed  his  love  and  thought  for  her.  She  was 
still  poring  over  it  when  Gregory  came  to  take  her  to 
dinner,  and  forgot  to  be  embarrassed  about  the  night 
before. 

Gregory  had  never  intended  to  be  embarrassed 
evidently.  He  considered  that  they  were  on  a  footing 
of  delightful  intimacy.  His  voice  had  more  exuberance 
in  it  to-night  than  she  had  previously  heard.  As  they 
went  past  Margaret's  door  they  looked  up  at  her  transom. 
It  was  dark. 

"I  hoped  she  was  coming  with  us,"  said  Freda. 

"She  doesn't  want  to  come  with  me,"  answered 
Gregory,  "and  that  has  hurt  me  for  a  long  time,  it  seems 
to  me,  although  perhaps  it  is  only  weeks.  But  it  may 
be  just  as  well.     For  I  could  never  make  her  happy." 

"Would  it  be  so  hard?" 

"I  could  never  make  any  woman  happy,"  said  Gregory 
with  extraordinary  violence.  "Happiness  is  a  state  of 
sloth.  But  I  could  live  through  ecstasy  and  through  pain 
with  some  one  who  was  not  afraid.  For  this  serene 
stagnancy  which  seems  to  be  the  end-all  of  most  people, 
I'm  no  good.     I  couldn't  do  it,  that's  all." 

His  head  was  in  the  air  and  he  looked,  thought  Freda, 
as  if  he  would  be  extremely  likely  to  forget  about  any 
woman  or  anything  else  and  go  sailing  off  in  some 
fantasy  of  his  own,  at  any  time.  She  remembered  him 
as  he  had  been,  despondent,  when  she  had  first  met  him, 
last  night  full  of  blazing  enthusiasms,  to-night  blithely 


124  Spellbinders 

independent.  It  delighted  her.  She  had  never  before 
met  a  person  who  adjusted  to  no  routine. 

"Let's  walk  in  peace  and  watch  the  clouds  and  I'll  tell 
you  what  an  old  Irish  poet  said  of  them." 

He  could  see  her  chin  lift  as  she  listened. 

"To  have  in  your  mind  such  a  wealth  of  beauty — what 
it  must  mean — to  feel  that  things  do  not  starve  within 
you  for  lack  of  utterance — "  Her  voice  was  blurred  into 
appreciations. 

"Why  let  them  starve?"  asked  Gregory. 

"Perhaps  because  practical  meat-and-drink  body  needs 
always  claim  the  nourishment  the  things  of  your  mind 
need — and  you  let  the  mind  go  hungry." 

"That's  it — that's  what  people  do — but  you  won't.  I 
hear  it  in  your  voice — see  it  in  your  face.  The  things 
in  you  are  too  vital  to  be  starved.  You  can  cripple  them 
but  you  can't  kill  them." 

"I  do  not  know." 

"You  must  set  yourself  free." 

Freda  smiled  ruefully. 

"That's  what  women  are  always  talking  about  and  what 
they  mean  is  a  washing  machine." 

"That's  no  freedom — that's  just  being  given  the  run  of 
the  prison.  Don't  you  see  that  what  I  mean  is  to  keep 
yourself  free  from  all  the  petty  desires — the  little  peeping 
conventions — free  for  the  great  desires  and  pains  that  will 
rush  through  you  some  day?  You  have  to  be  strong  to 
do  that.  You  can  put  up  wind  breaks  for  emotion  so 
easily.     And  you  don't  want  them." 

"It  means  being  very  fearless." 

"I  have  never  yet  met  anything  worth  fearing  except 
cowardice." 

He  stopped.  They  were  in  the  middle  of  some  side- 
walk, neither  of  them  noticed  where. 

"Why  did  you  kiss  me  last  night  ?" 


The  Clean  Wind  125 

"I  wanted  to.  I've  not  been  sorry,"  answered  Freda. 
"By  all  the  rules  I've  learned  I  ought  to  be  abashed,  but 
you  don't  live  by  rules,  so  why  waste  them  on  you  ?" 

Her  smile  was  faintly  tremulous.  His  strange,  un- 
familiar eyes  looked  into  hers  and  rested  there. 

"And  we  won't  have  to  spend  time  talking  about  love," 
he  said,  half  to  himself,  "we  shan't  wear  it  threadbare 
with  trying  to  test  its  fabric.  It  comes  like  the  wind — 
like  God." 

Again  they  breasted  the  wind  and  her  hand  was  fast 
in  his.  It  was  a  clean,  cool  clasp.  Freda  felt  oddly  that 
she  had  saved  her  soul,  that  she  had  met  an  ultimate. 


CHAPTER  XI 

NEWSPAPER  CUTS 


THE  State  Convention  was  imminent.  In  the  vast 
barrenness  of  the  Auditorium  rows  upon  rows  of 
ticketed  chairs  were  filling  up  with  delegates,  sectional 
banners  waved  in  the  various  parts  of  the  big  hall,  flags 
made  the  background  for  the  speakers,  chairs  and  table. 

"The  machinery  for  creating  a  government  is  in 
progress,"  said  Margaret,  "what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Helen  shook  her  head. 

"Inadequate.  When  you  think  why  they  have  come, 
how  they  have  come,  what  destinies  they  hold  in  their 
hands.     Would  women  do  it  better  I  wonder,  Margaret  ?" 

"Women  are  more  serious.  Perhaps.  Anyway  we 
must  try  it.  If  we  don't  like  that  machinery  we'll  have 
to  invent  another  kind." 

"Funny  male  gathering.  Think  they  all  have  their 
women — and  their  feeling  towards  their  own  women 
must  influence  their  feeling  towards  all  of  us.  Their  own 
women  to  treat  cruelly  or  kindly — or  possessively." 

"They're  on  the  last  lap  of  their  possession,"  answered 
Margaret. 

The  gallery  was  filling  with  women,  reporters,  specta- 
tors with  one  interest  or  another.  The  men  were  taking 
their  places,  formality  settling  on  the  assembly.  The 
temporary  chairman  was  on  the  platform,  welcoming 
them,  bowing  grandiloquently  with  a  compliment  that  was 
inevitable  to  the  ladies  in  the  gallery.     Nominations  for 

126 


Newspaper  Cuts  127 

a  chairman  were  in  order.  The  temporary  chairman 
retained  his  place  as  he  had  expected.  The  committees 
on  credentials,  resolutions,  organization,  retired  and  the 
delegation  heard  with  some  restlessness  further  exhort- 
ation as  to  the  duties  which  lay  before  them  and  the 
splendor  of  opportunity  awaiting  the  party  in  the 
immediate  future. 

The  platform  was  read.  Cheers,  a  little  too  well 
organized  and  not  too  freely  spontaneous,  punctuated  it. 
The  women  listened  to  it  attentively,  Margaret  frowning 
now  and  then  at  some  of  its  clauses. 

It  was  a  long  task.  On  its  consummation  the  conven- 
tion adjourned  for  lunch. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  before  the  business  of  electing 
the  delegates  at  large  to  the  National  Convention  had  been 
reached.  Helen  felt  her  face  grow  hot  and  her  heart  go 
a  little  faster  even  while  she  mocked  at  herself  for  those 
signs  of  nervousness.  Margaret  watched  as  if  her  ringer 
was  on  the  pulse  of  a  patient. 

Hedley's  name  went  through  nomination  as  every  one 
had  expected.     Then  Jensen  was  on  his  feet. 

He  was  good.  The  women  admitted  that  after  his 
first  words.  He  dwelt  upon  the  fact  of  suffrage,  on  the 
practical  differences  it  made  in  the  electorate.  He  spoke 
of  the  recognition  of  women  as  a  privilege.  Then  with 
a  reference  which  Helen  had  feared  must  come  he  spoke 
of  the  one  woman  whose  name  is  "familiar  to  us  through 
the  fine  party  loyalty  of  her  husband"  and  who  is  herself 
"the  unspoken  choice  of  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
women  of  this  State"  as  their  delegate.  Helen  heard  her 
name  come  forth  un familiarly,  heard  the  burst  of 
clapping,  faced  the  barricade  of  glances  with  a  smile. 

There  was  little  doubt  about  it  from  the  start.  What 
opposition  there  was.  must  have  decided  it  unsafe  to  show 
its  teeth.     An  hour  later  a  discomfited  man,  pushed  off 


128  Spellbinders 

the  party  slate  by  a  woman,  edged  his  way  out  of  the 
back  of  the  gallery  and  the  woman  was  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  men  and  women,  all  anxious  to  be  early  in  their 
congratulations,  some  from  sheer  enthusiasm,  others  from 
motives  more  questionable. 

"And  where  is  Gage  passing  the  cigars  ?"  asked  one 
man  jocularly. 

Helen  looked  around  as  if  in  surprise  that  he  was  not 
there. 

"He  isn't  here,  is  he?" 

She  knew  he  wasn't.  She  had  known  he  wouldn't  come, 
even  while  she  could  not  quite  kill  the  hope  that  he  would. 

At  the  door  were  photographers,  even  a  moving  picture 
man  waiting  for  the  new  woman  delegates.  Margaret 
dropped  Helen's  hand  and  Helen,  on  Mrs.  Brownley's 
arm,  moved  past  the  range  of  picture-takers  with  an  air 
of  complete  composure.  In  a  moment  she  was  in  her  car 
and  moving  out  of  sight.  Margaret  turned  to  walk  back 
to  her  own  apartment,  complete  satisfaction  on  her  face. 


Helen  entered  the  house  quietly  and  leaving  her  gloves 
and  wrap  on  the  hall  bench,  went  into  the  kitchen  to  see 
how  things  were  going  there.  There  was  a  pleasant  air 
of  competence  about  it.  The  maids  were  busy  and  the 
dinner  in  active  preparation.  Upstairs  the  nurse  had  the 
children.  She  played  with  them  a  little,  a  warm  sense  of 
satisfaction  at  her  heart.  It  was  so  absurd  to  choose — to 
fake  a  choice.  This  other  work,  this  other  business  could 
be  done  without  sacrificing  anything.  Gage  was  absurd. 
She  was  no  less  a  mother,  not  a  bit  less  good  a  housewife 
because  she  was  a  delegate  to  the  Republican  Convention. 
It  took  a  bit  of  management,  that  was  all.  If  she  was 
treating  Gage  badly  she  would  feel  different. 


Newspaper  Cuts  129 

But  there  was  a  guilty  feeling  which  she  could  not 
control.  He  was  unhappy  and  she  the  cause.  They  had 
been  too  close  for  that  not  to  hurt. 

At  seven  o'clock,  a  little  late  for  dinner,  came  Gage,  a 
guarded  courtesy  in  his  manner.  He  asked  her  pardon 
for  not  dressing  and  handed  her  a  sheaf  of  evening  papers. 
She  was  thankful  that  they  had  been  issued  too  early  to 
contain  the  news  of  her  triumph.  It  postponed  certain 
altercations.  She  thought  suddenly  of  her  barrage  of 
photographers  and  of  what  she  had  completely  forgotten, 
Gage's  tremendous  dislike  of  having  her  picture  in  the 
papers. 

"I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  your  picture  tossed  about 
the  country — looked  at  casually  for  an  hour  and  then 
used  as  old  newspapers  are  used — to  wrap  a  package — 
line  a  stair-rug — heaven  knows  what !" 

Of  course  it  had  appeared  occasionally  for  all  of  that 
but  Helen  had  made  the  occasions  infrequent.  She  had 
always  liked  that  prejudice  of  his.  As  she  looked  at  him 
to-night  she  thought  he  looked  tired.  There  were 
strained  lines  around  his  eyes,  and  he  was  very  silent. 

She  said  several  little  things  and  then,  because  avoid- 
ance of  the  big  topic  seemed  impossible,  joined  him  in 
his  silence.  He  looked  at  her  at  last,  smiling  a  little.  It 
was  not  the  smile  of  a  rancorous  man  but  rather  a  hurt 
smile,  a  forced  smile  of  one  who  is  going  to  go  through 
pain  wearing  it. 

"I  have  been  congratulated  all  the  way  home  on  your 
account,  Helen.  It  seems  to  have  been  a  landslide  for 
you." 

"There  was  hardly  any  opposition."  It  was  meager 
but  she  could  not  go  on  without  seeming  to  run  into  a 
forbidden  or  aching  subject. 

There  they  had  to  stop.  Helen  had  a  vision  of  the 
closed  topics  between  them,  a  sudden  horror  of  this 


130  Spellbinders 

cleavage.  Suppose  he  didn't  see  that  he  was  foolish,  that 
she  was  not  treating  him  badly,  that  she  must  lay  up 
something  for  herself  as  a  person  against  the  day  when 
he  himself  might  weary  of  her  as  a  woman.  Fiercely 
she  recast  her  arguments  in  her  own  mind.  Yet  there 
was  that  tired  look  in  his  eyes.  You  can  fight  rancor 
but  not  weariness. 

"How  is  Miss  Thorstad  getting  on?" 

"Fine.  It  was  a  great  hunch.  You  know  she  actually 
saves  me  a  lot  of  thinking.  It  shows  that  a  girl  with  wits 
is  worth  half  a  dozen  expert  stenographers.  She  has  an 
air  about  her  that  is  dignified  and  calm  and  yet  she's  not 
a  stick." 

"I  imagine  there's  a  volcanic  soul  under  that  rather  calm 
exterior." 

"Perhaps." 

"Gage,  you  look  tired." 

He  made  a  visible  effort  to  rouse  himself. 

"Tired  ?     Why,  no,  dear.     Not  especially." 

"What  are  we  to  do  to-night  ?" 

"I  have  some  work  to-night." 

She  looked  somewhat  baffled  as  the  door  closed  after 
him  a  half  hour  later.  Then  going  to  the  telephone  she 
called  Margaret.  Margaret  was  not  at  home.  Helen 
read  for  an  hour  and  went  to  bed  early. 

Gage  had  meant  to  work.  But  he  was  not  working. 
He  was  fighting  on  through  a  cloud  of  bitterness  and  of 
thoughts  which  he  knew  were  not  wholly  unreasonable. 
He  was  sitting  at  his  littered  desk,  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  work  strewn  about  him  and  a  picture  of  Helen  on  his 
desk  confronting  him,  accenting  his  trouble.  There  she 
was.  He  had  only  to  close  his  eyes  and  he  saw  her  even 
more  clearly,  breaking  through  the  clouded  doubts  of  his 
mind  as  she  had  done  in  the  first  days  of  his  marriage — 
clearness,  peace,  the  one  real  beauty  in  the  world,  the  one 


Newspaper  Cuts  131 

real  truth  in  the  world — Helen — love.  And  she  had  said 
she  wanted  to  be  "clean  of  sex!"  He  scowled  at  the 
thought  but  it  danced  before  him  defiling  his  memories. 
It  would  not  go!  From  those  early  days,  those  days  of 
the  "hardening  process"  there  had  persisted  always  in 
Gage  secret  faith,  fading  now  to  a  hope,  flaring  now  to  a 
conviction  that  sex  was  clean,  was  beautiful  until  some 
other  agency  defiled  it.  He  remembered  still  his  tortured 
adolescent  mind  revolving  around  the  problems  of  the 
mysteries  of  birth,  stirring  him  to  wonder  and  the  leering 
clandestine  ugly  talk  which  seemed  an  ugly  wrapping 
around  the  wonder.  He  had  always  thought  that  his  son 
would  have  no  such  tortures.  His  own  proven  conviction 
would  carry  the  boy  through  all  doubts.  Now  he 
seemed  cast  back  in  the  mire  of  his  own  old  doubts. 
Had  Helen  always  felt  defiled?  Had  all  their  life  been 
a  hideous  mixture  of  shame  and  complacencies  and  hidden 
revulsions?  Had  they  really  conquered  nothing?  Or 
was  there  nothing  to  conquer?  Was  he  over-fastidious, 
unmanly  ?  Was  the  necessary  thing  to  blunt  once  more, 
this  time  permanently,  these  illusions  of  his — to  go  home 
to  Helen  and  play  the  part  of  the  demanding  husband, 
demanding  concession  in  return  for  concession?  Laugh 
at  her  whims,  her  fads,  quarrel  with  her  if  necessary.  If 
she  must  run  to  her  conventions,  let  her  go.  And  let  him 
coarsen  his  feeling  so  it  was  willing  to  take  what  was 
left  of  her. 

He  wiped  his  forehead  impatiently.  It  was  damp  and 
that  sign  of  his  intensity  shamed  him.  He  had  learned 
that  the  revealing  of  emotion  was  man's  shame,  to  be 
hidden  at  all  costs.  Helen  had  given  him  a  final  lesson  in 
that.  Angrily  he  flung  himself  into  his  work,  con- 
centrating actually  with  his  will  for  hours,  mastering 
the  intricacies  of  the  question  on  which  he  must  give  an 
opinion  in  the  morning.    When  he  had  done  his  notes  lay 


132  Spellbinders 

ready.  He  cleaned  up  the  litter  of  papers,  a  little  frown 
on  his  face  and  looked  at  his  watch.  Nearly  midnight. 
He  must  go  home. 

All  the  practical  machinery  of  locking  up,  starting  the 
car,  steering,  driving  into  the  garage,  locking  the  garage, 
turning  out  the  lights  in  the  library.  Nothing  was 
different  from  other  nights.  He  was  a  man  in  his  own 
house.  But  over  the  formalism  of  his  actions  and  his 
deliberate  definiteness  of  conscious  thought  his  mind  was 
in  battle.  He  was  trying  to  kill  the  part  of  him  that  cried 
out  against  going  to  his  wife  in  such  a  mood.  He  was 
trying  deliberately  to  kill  it  with  a  blunt  edged  thought 
which  read  "Be  a  man — not  a  neurasthenic."  He  cursed 
himself  under  his  breath.  He  was  no  damned  tempera- 
mental actor  to  carry  on  like  this  (Always,  always,  that 
choking  necessity  for  repressing  these  feelings,  concealing 
the  fact  of  feeling).  A  married  man — seven  years — 
rights — duties — nature — foolish  whims — but  above  that 
persisted  the  almost  tortured  cry  of  his  spirit,  strug- 
gling with  the  hotness  of  desire,  begging,  for  its  life — 
"Don't  go  home  like  a  beast  to  her  I" 


in 

In  the  morning  Helen  was  again  worried  by  his 
appearance. 

"What  time  did  you  come  in,  Gage?" 

"About  midnight." 

"You  look  as  if  you'd  slept  wretchedly.     Did  you?" 

"Well,  enough."  His  tone  was  surly.  He  could  not 
bear  to  look  at  her,  shining  haired,  head  held  high, 
confidence,  strength,  balance  of  mind,  justice,  radiating 
from  her.  He  knew  what  a  contrast  he  made — she  did 
not  need  to  tell  him  of  his  heavy,  encircled  eyes,  his 
depressed  mouth. 


Newspaper  Cuts  133 

She  pushed  his  hair  back  from  his  forehead,  standing 
beside  his  chair.     It  was  a  familiar  gesture  between  them. 

"Gage,  you  mean  more  than  anything  else  to  me. 
You  know  that?" 

He  mumbled  an  answer. 

"But  don't  resent  it  so  awfully  because  I  can't  believe 
that  loving  is  a  woman's  only  job.  We  mustn't  absorb 
each  other." 

Quoted,  he  thought  bitterly,  from  Margaret  Duffield. 
Quite  reasonable  too.  Very  reasonable.  He  suddenly 
hated  her  for  her  reasoning  which  was  denied  to  his 
struggling  instincts.  All  desire,  all  love  in  his  heart  had 
curdled  to  a  sodden  lump  of  resentment. 

He  picked  up  the  paper.  There  was  Helen,  marching 
across  the  page,  smiling  into  the  camera's  eyes.  Curious 
men  with  hats  and  crowding  women  showed  in  the 
blurred  background.  He  looked  from  the  picture  to  the 
real  Helen. 

"Very  good  picture." 

His  tone  was  disagreeable.  And  he  had  not  answered 
her  appeal. 

"Be  fair,  Gage." 

Very  well,  he  would  be  fair. 

"I  haven't  the  smallest  sympathy  with  all  this,  Helen. 
I  know  you  regard  that  as  unreasonable.  It  may  be  that 
I  am.  But  I  don't  believe  you're  bigger  or  better  because 
of  all  this.  You've  done  it  from  no  spirit  of  conviction 
but  because  you  were  flattered  into  doing  it.  The  Duffield 
girl  is  simply  using  you  for  her  own  convictions.  With 
her  they  at  least  are  convictions.  But  with  you  they're 
not." 

"That's  quite  enough,  thanks,  Gage." 

He  was  cruelly  glad  he  had  hurt  her.  How  it  helped 
the  ache  in  his  own  heart  1 

Helen  thought :  "He's  jealous  of  Margaret.     Terribly 


134  Spellbinders 

jealous.  It's  abnormal  and  disgusting.  What  has 
happened  to  him?"  She  let  him  leave  the  house  with 
what  was  almost  a  little  life  of  spirits  when  he  had  gone. 
She  had  not  time  to  sift  these  feelings  of  Gage  now. 
Later,  if  they  persisted.  She  wondered  if  he  should  see 
a  doctor,  thought  for  a  moment  of  psycho-analysis, 
speculating  as  to  whether  that  might  set  him  straight. 
But  the  telephone  began  ringing  frantically. 


CHAPTER  XII 

GREGORY  LECTURES 


THE  committee  on  entertainment  of  visiting  lecturers 
had  called  upon  Gregory  at  his  hotel  and  been 
pleased.  He  had  the  ear-marks  of  eccentricity,  to  be 
sure,  but  in  their  capacity  of  hostesses  they  were  used  to 
that.  Geniuses  might  not  live  in  St.  Pierre  but  they  were 
frequently  imported  thither  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  several 
had  grown  there,  though  their  wings  had  been  only 
budding  when  they  had  taken  themselves  to  the  denser 
air  of  the  great  cities. 

They  had  met  him  now  and  he  pleased  them.  His  fine 
courtesy,  the  slight  exaggeration  of  his  manner,  his 
deference  to  their  arrangements  and  his  lack  of  pompous- 
ness  charmed  them.  They  withdrew  after  he  had  politely 
but  firmly  refused  invitations  for  either  lunch  or  dinner 
saying  that  he  must  concentrate  before  his  talk.  He 
neglected  to  mention  that  he  was  concentrating  on  Freda 
and  was  planning  to  meet  her  at  a  lunch  room  outside  her 
office  where  she  had  said  they  would  have  a  chance  to  talk. 

A  clean,  white  table  needing  no  cloths  to  Cover  its 
shining  metal  surface  with  two  bowls  of  oyster  stew, 
steaming  very  hot,  furnished  him  and  Freda  their 
occasion. 

She  told  him  Margaret  had  asked  for  him. 

"And  you  told  her?" 

"That  I  was  having  dinner  with  you  to-night.  I  didn't 
mention  lunch.     Wasn't  that  ridiculously  secretive  ?" 

135 


136  Spellbinders 

"It  was  deliciously  secret." 

"I  don't  think  I  should  monopolize  all  your  time, 
though,"  she  demurred. 

"Freda !"  He  was  frowning  now.  "You  aren't  going 
to  waste  time  like  that,  are  you?  You  aren't  going  to 
hint  at  cheapness  and  little  crippled  conventions,  are  you?" 

"No,  I'm  not.  I  was  just  saying — words.  I  wasn't 
thinking.  I  suppose  I  was  trying  to  hold  you  off  for  a 
minute  for  some  obscure  reason." 

He  glanced  at  her  very  tenderly. 

"You  needn't  hold  me  off,  darling.  But  it's  such  a 
short  time.  And  there's  nothing  in  the  world  as  wise  as 
to  seize  the  cup  of  joy  when  it's  full.  There's  an  undis- 
coverable  leak  in  that  cup  and  it  empties  if  you  dawdle 
over  it.  It  may  be  accident — death — or  human  perversity 
— almost  anything.  I'm  so  sure  our  cup  is  full  now  that 
I  want  to  drink  it  with  you  quickly.  Listen — there's 
nothing  in  the  world  against  it  except  that  some  person 
whom  neither  of  us  cares  about  at  all  might  say  we 
weren't  considered — were  too  hasty.  For  the  sake  of 
that  obscure  person  whom  we  don't  know,  you  aren't 
going  to  send  me  away,  are  you?" 

She  was  hesitant. 

"It  doesn't  trouble  you  longer  that  I  came  out  here  to 
see  Margaret  Duffield,  does  it?" 

"A  little,"  she  answered  honestly. 

"It  shouldn't.  It  shouldn't  and  it  mustn't.  With  her 
it  was  all  argument  and  all  tangle — with  you  it  was  like  a 
flash  of  light." 

"I  don't  want  her  to  matter,"  said  Freda,  "I  always 
have  wanted  my  love  to  come  like  this.  Without  question. 
Fearlessly." 

"Then  you  will,  darling?" 

"I  don't  care  about  the  rest,  but  there's  father.  I  hate 
to  not  tell  him." 


Gregory  Lectures  137 

"Will  he  hate  it  when  you're  happy?" 

"He'll  love  it" 

"Then— listen.  I  shall  tell  him— later.  I'll  tell  him 
that  I  always  prayed  that  when  I  married  I  wouldn't  have 
to  have  the  eyes  of  the  world  on  the  coming  of  my  bride. 
That  my  wedding  should  be  secret  and  holy.  If  we  could 
tell  him  without  the  rest  knowing — but  he  would  tell  your 
mother,  wouldn't  he  ?" 

"And  mother  would  want  a  wedding,"  said  Freda,  a 
little  drearily. 

He  leaned  across  to  touch  her  hand. 

"You  don't  think  it's  furtive — clandestine?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?" 

"No—" 

"I  must  go  on,  you  see — those  damned  lectures.  I  must 
have  the  money.  And  I  must  go  through  to  Spokane. 
I  could  ask  you  to  wait  until  I  got  back  but,  darling — 
what's  the  use  of  waiting?  What's  the  use  of  waiting? 
We  could  be  married  to-morrow — and  have  Sunday 
together.  Then — then — we  could  wait  for  each  other. 
Or  you  could  come  with  me — " 

"No,  we  couldn't,  Gregory.  It's  too  expensive.  You 
know  we  couldn't." 

She  was  so  definite  that  his  face  fell.  At  the  sight  of 
it  she  smiled  and  reassured  him. 

"I  shan't  mind  a  bit  not  having  any  money." 

"Money's  a  nuisance.  But  I  want  enough  of  it — I'll 
earn  enough  of  it  to  take  you  to  Ireland  with  me,  when 
I  come  back  in  six  weeks." 

Her  forehead  was  a  little  knit.     He  went  on  eagerly. 

"I've  never  been  so  practical.  You  wouldn't  believe 
what  a  man  of  affairs — American  affairs — I've  been.  I 
looked  up  the  name  of  a  little  hamlet  where  we  could  go 
to-morrow  afternoon  and  be  married  by  sundown.    And 


138  Spellbinders 

then,  sweetheart,  an  eternity  of  a  day  before  us — and 
immortality  to  look  forward  to." 

"And  no  one  to  know." 

"Unless  you  wish  it — no  one." 

"I  don't  wish  it.  It  sounds  dangerous  and  mad — but 
if  I  don't,  Gregory,  I  know  I'll  regret  it  all  the  rest  of  my 
life.  It's  my  chance  to  prove  life.  It's  not  as  if  I  had 
the  faintest  doubt  of  you — " 

"Never  have  I  been  married,"  he  laughed,  "I'm  poor 
and  that's  the  worst  of  me.  You  can  read  all  about  me  in 
the  papers  to-day.     They  tell  the  worst." 

"Freda,  darling,  I've  always  wanted  to  steal  the  secret 
of  life.     Come  with  me — and  we  can  do  it." 

There  was  a  flame  in  her  eyes — a  response  as  urgent  as 
his  call. 

"That's  what  I've  wanted  too — all  my  life." 

The  waitress  at  their  table  glanced  at  them  impatiently. 
They  dallied  too  long — this  gawky,  skinny,  black  haired 
young  fellow  and  the  girl  in  the  dark  blue  cape.  Making 
love,  all  right.  She  was  a  pretty  girl  too,  but  no  style. 
All  that  heavy,  yellow  hair  half  slipping  down  her  neck. 
She'd  do  with  a  bob. 

She  had  a  still  greater  impatience  as  she  searched  the 
table  in  vain  for  the  tip  they  had  forgotten. 


ii 

The  committee  in  the  ante-room  glanced  cheerfully  in  at 
the  crowd  gathering  for  Gregory's  lecture.  They  had 
hoped  for  a  big  audience  but  it  was  a  bad  week.  The 
town  was  full  of  the  Convention  delegates  and  in  little 
mood  for  lectures,  they  had  feared.  But  people  came. 
Fully  a  thousand  people  had  gathered  to  hear  the  lecture 
on  Ireland  and  its  Poetry. 

They  wondered  a  little  at  some  of  the  people  who  bought 


Gregory  Lectures  139 

tickets  at  the  door — men  whom  they  were  sure  never  had 
attended  any  lecture  under  their  auspices  before.  That 
was  because  they  did  not  know  that  Gregory  Macmillan's 
name  was  one  familiar  to  other  circles  than  the  literary 
poetic  ones — that  his  vigor  in  the  Irish  Republican  cause 
had  been  told  even  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  There 
were  those  who  would  have  come  to  hear  a  lecture  of  no 
other  subject — Irishmen  who  had  heard  his  name  and 
subject  announced  at  their  meeting  of  the  Knights  of 
Columbus.  The  literary-minded,  the  students,  the  people 
who  patronized  the  lectures  of  the  Collegiate  Alumnae  as 
they  did  all  semi-social  affairs,  sat  side  by  side  in  the  hall 
and  watched  Gregory  as  he  came  out  from  the  faded 
wings  at  one  side  of  the  amateur  stage. 

Margaret  Duffield,  Carpenter,  Helen  and  a  rather 
unwilling  Gage  had  adjoining  seats.  Gage  had  been 
extremely  disrespectful  in  his  characterization  of  the 
lecture,  the  society  which  gave  it  and  the  presumable 
character  of  the  man  who  was  to  give  it,  especially  as  he 
learned  that  he  was  a  friend  of  Margaret's. 

Yet  it  was  Gage  who  enjoyed  the  lecture  most.  From 
the  opening  sentence  it  was  clear  that  the  discussion  of 
Irish  Poetry  was  to  Gregory  merely  a  discussion  of 
Ireland.  In  Ireland  to  be  a  poet  meant  that  one  thought 
deeply  enough  to  be  a  patriot.     All  his  poets  were  patriots. 

He  made  no  specific  indictment  of  England  except  as 
he  read  with  passionate  fervor  the  translation  of  Padraic 
Pearse  from  the  old  Irish — 

"The  world  hath  conquered,  the  wind  hath  scattered 
like  dust 

Alexander,  Caesar,  and  all  that  shared  their  sway. 

Tara  is  grass,  and  behold  how  Troy  lieth  low, 

And  even  the  English,  perchance  their  hour  will  come !" 


140  Spellbinders 

It  was  a  quotation  and  he  did  not  comment  on  its 
content.  But  he  sketched  the  lives  of  some  of  his  poets — 
his  friends — his  leaders.  He  made  their  dream  clear — 
their  simple  idealism — their  ignoring  of  the  politics  of 
expediency — their  lives  so  chaste  and  beautiful.  He  told 
of  their  homes,  their  schools, — and  sometimes  when  he 

ended  simply,  "He  was  killed  in  the  attack  of , 

shot  by  the  military" — or  more  briefly,  "He  was  executed 
on ,"  a  shudder  ran  through  his  audience. 

He  would  show  the  gayety  of  Ireland,  the  joy  of  the 
people,  their  exuberance — and  end  with  a  simple  "Of 
course  it  is  not  like  that  now.  There  is  much  grief  and 
mourning." 

It  was  not  politics.  It  was  a  prose  poem  composed  by  a 
poet.  One  could  not  take  exception  to  it  as  political  but 
the  hearers  would  forever  have  their  standpoints  colored 
by  what  he  said.  It  was  like  a  picture  which,  once  seen, 
could  never  be  forgotten. 

Margaret  listened,  her  ready  mind  taking  exception  to 
some  of  the  things  he  said,  seeing  how  he  played  upon  his 
audience — Walter  and  Helen  listened  with  intellectual 
appreciation.  But  Gage, '  slouched  down  in  his  seat  felt 
envy  grow  in  him.  There  was  before  him  what  he  had 
always  wanted.  A  man  who  had  something  indestruct- 
ible, something  immortal  to  care  for.  A  conviction — and 
an  ideal — an  outlet  for  his  soul.     He  felt  himself  cheated. 

He  liked  too  to  listen  to  the  poems  about  women.  No 
controversial  tirades  these  poems — but  verses  soft  and 
sweet  and  pliable  as  the  essence  of  women — once  had  been. 
He  checked  his  running  thoughts  and  looked  at  his  wife, 
sitting  beside  him  with  her  head  high,  "conscious  of  her- 
self, every  minute  now,"  he  thought  bitterly. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LIFE  ENTRUSTED 


FREDA  worked  until  noon  the  next  day.  Saturday 
was  a  half  holiday  with  the  employees  of  the  firm  so 
there  was  no  question  of  her  remaining  in  the  office  longer. 
All  morning  she  worked  steadily,  almost  absorbedly.  It 
was  as  if  she  held  her  ecstasy  off  from  her,  unwilling  to 
even  think  about  it  yet. 

She  had  spent  the  night  before,  after  the  lecture  to 
which  she  went  alone,  in  writing  a  letter  to  her  father. 
It  was  a  long  intimate  letter,  telling  of  the  kind  of  work 
she  was  doing,  the  way  she  was  living  and  of  what  she 
was  thinking.  She  wrote  as  if  she  were  talking  to  him, 
on  and  on,  and  her  ending  was  like  the  conclusion  of  a 
talk,  as  if  she  asked  for  his  blessing.  "So  you  see,  father 
dear,  I'm  all  right.  And  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  never 
forget  what  you've  said  to  me — that  I  must  live  so  that 
I'll  never  be  ashamed  of  having  had  life  entrusted  to  me." 

She  was  really  not  afraid  at  all.  Her  demurring  had 
been  only  the  mechanical  reactions  of  conventions  which 
sat  lightly  on  her.  In  her  heart  she  knew  that  she  was 
at  home  with  Gregory  and  that  the  completeness  of  their 
mutual  understanding  could  mean  only  that  they  belonged 
together.  Gregory,  like  her  father,  reassured  her.  In 
the  midst  of  his  impetuousness,  his  driving  thinking,  she 
felt  the  purity  without  which  he  could  not  have  been 
quite  so  free.  She  felt  his  kindness  too,  and  the  gentle- 
ness of  his  hands.     He  was  like  her  father,  she  thought. 

141 


142  Spellbinders 

Her  father  had  perhaps  had  the  glory  of  adventure  in 
him  too  once,  but  it  had  been  made  submissive  to  circum- 
stance. It  had  left  its  residue  of  understanding.  She 
felt  very  sure  that  when  he  knew  he  would  be  glad. 

Physically  her  fine  fearlessness  and  eager  nerves  kept 
her  from  any  reaction,  or  from  any  of  the  terrors,  real 
or  assumed,  which  women  have  come  to  believe  right  and 
modest  at  the  approach  of  marriage.  And  minor  faults 
of  Gregory  she  never  paused  to  consider.  It  would  not 
have  occurred  to  her  that  it  was  a  fitting  time  to  look  for 
them.  Little  problems,  living  difficulties  troubled  her 
serene  health  not  at  all.  She  would  have  been  ashamed 
to  measure  them  up  against  her  love.  The  latent  spirit 
of  adventure  in  her,  her  fine  romantic  training,  taken  from 
books  and  preserved  because  of  her  limited  knowledge  of 
people,  were  like  winds  blowing  her  on  to  the  heart  of 
her  romance. 

With  all  this  strength  and  surety,  this  Ali  Baba's  cave 
of  beauty  to  explore,  it  was  yet  characteristic  of  her  that 
she  could  work.  She  had  been  in  the  office  four  days  and 
already  her  place  was  made.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  she 
was  intelligently  competent  and  to  know  that  her  efficiency 
was  not  a  matter  of  making  a  first  impression.  They  all 
liked  her  and  she  already  was  beginning  to  lighten  work 
for  various  people. 

Flandon  was  not  at  the  office  at  all  on  Saturday.  He 
called  up  in  the  course  of  the  morning  and  speaking  briefly 
to  Freda  told  her  to  tell  Mr.  Sable  that  he  was  going  out 
of  town  over  the  week-end  and  would  be  back  for  the 
hearing  of  the  Kraker  case  on  Monday  morning.  That 
made  it  easier  for  Freda.  She  had  a  little  fear  that  there 
might  have  been  some  extra  duty  for  her  on  this  Saturday 
afternoon  which  would  wreck  the  golden  plans.  So  at 
noon  she  put  her  desk  in  order — she  was  beginning  to  feel 


Life  Entrusted  143 

her  proprietorship  in  a  desk  now — and  went  back  to  her 
room  to  get  her  bag,  packed  the  night  before. 

She  had  meant  to  leave  a  note  for  Miss  Duffield,  but 
by  chance  she  met  her  on  the  stairs.  Margaret  looked  at 
the  bag  and  made  her  own  quick  deduction. 

"Going  home  for  the  week-end?" 

"I'll  be  back  Monday,"  said  Freda,  feeling  rather  rotten 
as  she  let  Margaret's  misunderstanding  pass. 

But  she  forgot  about  that.  She  forgot  everything  as 
she  went  out  in  the  street  full  of  May  sunshine  and  ran 
for  the  street-car  which  would  take  her  to  the  railway 
station.  There,  in  the  noon  crowd,  she  put  her  bag 
between  her  feet  and  hung  on  to  the  strap  above  her  head, 
unable  to  keep  the  smile  from  her  face  any  longer. 

Gregory  was  there  waiting  for  her.  And  at  the  first 
word  he  spoke,  his  spirit  of  exalted  happiness  carried 
Freda  up  into  the  heights.  He  had  a  word  of  endearment 
for  her  and  then  with  her  bag  and  his  held  in  one  hand, 
he  managed  with  the  other  to  hold  her  close  to  his  side 
and  they  went  to  find  their  train. 

There  was  an  empty  seat.  That  was  the  first  piece  of 
luck,  when  the  train  already  looked  impossibly  full  of  men 
and  women  and  families,  setting  out  with  baggage  which 
overflowed  from  the  seats  to  the  aisles.  But  there  was 
the  seat,  at  the  end  of  the  coach,  undiscovered  yet,  or 
perhaps  miraculously  set  apart  for  them — made  invisible 
to  other  searchers — its  red  plush  surface  cleanly  brushed 
for  the  journey  and  a  streak  of  sunlight  like  a  benison 
across  the  back  of  it. 

Freda  slipped  in  beside  the  window  and,  placing  their 
baggage  in  the  little  rack,  with  a  touch  that  was  almost 
reverent  for  Freda's  bag,  Gregory  sat  down  beside  her. 

"We  have  an  hour  and  forty  minutes,"  he  declared, 
"and  look,  my  darling."     He  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  tiny 


144  Spellbinders 

white  box,  but,  as  she  stretched  her  hand,  he  put  it  away 
again. 

"You  mustn't  see  it.  Not  yet.  But  I  wanted  you  to 
know  I  had  it.  It's  the  most  divine  circlet  of  gold  you 
ever  saw.     The  halo  of  my  wife." 

His  voice  was  very  soft  and  tender,  the  contact  of  his 
body  against  hers  caressing. 

A  boy  went  by  with  sandwiches.  They  surprised  each 
other  by  regarding  him  intently  and  then  it  occurred  to 
Freda  why  they  did  so. 

"Did  you  forget  lunch  too  ?"  she  cried. 

So  they  lunched  on  ham  sandwiches  and  Peters'  milk 
chocolate  and  water  in  sanitary  paper  cups  and  the  train 
creaked  into  action,  joltingly,  as  befitted  a  day  coach  in  a 
local  train. 

Little  stations  twinkled  by  with  sudden  life  and  between 
them  lay  fields  and  valleys  where  life  pushed  quietly  to 
the  sun.  They  watched  the  villages  with  tenderness. 
Each  one  unexplored  was  a  regret.  There  were  so 
many  things  to  be  happy  with.  A  child  came  running 
up  to  get  a  drink  of  water  and  leaned  on  the  edge 
of  their  seat,  staring  at  them  curiously.  They  liked  that. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  child  guessed  their  riot  of  joy  and 
peace. 

They  had  found  that  it  was  necessary  for  the  haste  of 
their  marriage  to  go  over  the  borderline  of  the  state,  a 
matter  of  forty  miles.  And  they  alighted  in  a  little  town 
of  which  they  knew  nothing.  It  was  impressive  as  they 
looked  about.  Straight  neat  roads  led  away  from  the  red 
roofed  station. 

"I'd  like  to  walk  into  the  country,"  said  Freda. 

"So  we  shall.     But  first  we  must  be  married." 

He  left  her  in  the  parlor  of  the  little  hotel  while  he 
went  to  find  the  justice  of  the  peace.  In  half  an  hour  he 
was  back,  exultant. 


Life  Entrusted  145 

"Nothing  dares  to  hamper  us,"  he  declared.  "Now, 
beloved." 

So  they  were  married,  in  the  little  bare  office  of  the 
justice  of  the  peace,  with  a  clerk  from  the  court  called  in 
to  witness  that  they  were  made  man  and  wife  by  law. 
Gregory  slipped  the  "circlet  of  gold"  on  the  finger  of  his 
wife  and  as  he  made  answers  to  the  questions  put  to  him, 
his  eyes  were  on  Freda  as  if  he  spoke  to  her  alone,  as  if 
to  her  alone  was  he  making  this  pledge  of  faith  and 
loyalty  and  love.  Freda  did  not  look  at  him.  For  the 
moment  she  was  fulfilling  her  pledge  to  life  and  Gregory 
was  its  instrument. 

Then  they  were  out  again  in  the  sunlight,  choked  with 
emotion,  silent.  Vaguely  they  walked  back  to  the  hotel. 
It  was  mid-afternoon. 

"Shall  we  stay  at  the  hotel?"  asked  Gregory. 

"It  doesn't  matter.  It  doesn't  matter  at  all.  Only  it 
would  be  nicer  in  the  country,  wouldn't  it?" 

"There  should  be  inns,"  said  Gregory,  frowning  for  the 
first  time  that  day  as  he  looked  at  the  square,  ugly,  frame 
building  which  was  before  them,  a  knot  of  curious  loafers 
on  the  porch.  "In  Ireland  we  have  inns.  They're  some- 
how different." 

"I  truly  don't  care  where  we  are,"  smiled  Freda  and  for 
that  his  eyes  glanced  down  to  hers  with  admiration. 

None  the  less  he  went  to  inspect  the  little  rooms  of  the 
hotel  and  came  down  depressed. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  up  there,  darling.  Let's  see 
if  there  isn't  some  other  place." 

The  hotel  keeper,  clerk  and  manager,  reflected  on  the 
inquiry  which  Gregory  tried  to  make  polite. 

"Of  course  there's  the  Roadside  Inn  if  you're  looking 
for  style.     Five  miles  out.     Jitney  take  you  there." 

"I   know   that   place,"    said    Freda,    "That's   lovely, 


146  Spellbinders 

Gregory.  Oh,  I  think  you'd  like  it.  Only  it  may  be 
noisy.     They  dance  there  at  night." 

The  proprietor  misunderstood. 

"So  far  as  dancing  goes  here  we  dance  here  till  mid- 
night too/'  he  said,  full  of  pride. 

Gregory  laughed. 

"Well,  sir,  we  think  we'd  like  to  be  in  the  country 
to-day      We'll  try  the  inn  you  so  kindly  speak  of." 

The  jitney  ride  gave  them  further  sense  of  adventure 
and  when  they  stopped  in  front  of  the  little  inn  with  its 
quiet  air  and  its  stiff  little  flowerbeds  aglow  with  red 
geraniums,  they  were  enchanted.  Their  room  pleased 
them  too.  A  little  low-ceilinged  room  with  bright 
chintzes  and  painted  furniture  and  a  casement  window 
that  stood  a  little  open.  The  colored  man  who  played  the 
fiddle  at  night,  carried  up  their  bags.  When  he  had  left 
them,  Gregory  kissed  his  wife. 

Ten  minutes  later  they  went  down  the  brown  road 
where  the  dust  lay  soft  under  their  feet.  White  birches 
and  young  elders  all  fresh  and  green  with  early  summer 
foliage  surrounded  them.  Then  from  the  road  a  little 
trodden  path  slipped  back  into  the  woods. 

"Shall  we  try  it?" 

The  woods  closed  behind  them.  The  little  path  led  a 
faltering  way  between  trees  where  long  streams  of  sun- 
light fell.  Under  their  feet  grass  rustled.  Branches 
leaned  to  touch  them.  All  the  woods  seemed  to  know 
that  lovers  were  passing  and  whispered  tremulously. 

Gregory  heard  the  whispers  and  turned  to  the  girl  at 
his  side.  Each  heart  heard  the  other  as  he  stopped  to 
hold  her  in  his  embrace  until  they  grew  faint  with  joy. 

"I  love  you,  Freda,"  said  the  man,  ever  restless. 

Freda  smiled  at  him.  It  was  all  she  could  do. 
Demonstrations  of   love  were  new  to  her.     She  was 


Life  Entrusted  147 

unbent,  ready  for  caresses  but  not  yet  quite  responsive 
except  in  the  fine  clarity  of  her  mind.  It  was  Gregory 
who  must  stop  to  bring  her  hand  to  his  lips,  to  hold  her 
against  him  for  a  silent  moment. 

The  woods  grew  thinner. 

"Ah,  look,"  cried  Freda,  "the  enchanted  woods  end  in 
a  farmhouse  yard !"  She  was  standing  on  a  little  knoll 
and  beneath  them  could  be  seen  the  farmhouse  and  its 
buildings,  a  group  of  children,  perhaps  the  very  ones  who 
had  trodden  the  path  on  their  daily  way  to  school. 

"I  like  it,"  said  Gregory.  "It's  love  bending  into  life. 
Don't  you  like  to  see  it  from  here — like  a  pastoral  picture  ? 
Children,  kittens,  the  thin  woman  going  to  carry  the 
scraps  to  the  chickens.  See,  Freda — isn't  life  beautiful?" 
Freda  saw  it  through  his  poet's  vision  for  a  moment.  It 
was  truly  beautiful — the  group  held  together  by  the 
common  interest  of  procreation  and  maintenance — but 
she  saw  that  more  beautiful  still  were  the  eyes  of  Gregory. 
She  had  a  sudden  feeling  that  she  must  never  dim  his 
vision.  Whatever  might  come  she  must  protect  that 
vision  even  though,  as  now,  she  might  see  that  the  farm 
below  was  full  of  signs  of  neglect  and  that  the  children 
quarreled. 

They  turned  back  and  sat  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree- 
and  he  took  off  her  hat  and  stroked  her  hair  gently  as  she: 
lay  against  his  arm.  They  did  not  talk  much.  Incom- 
plete little  phrases  in  constant  reiteration  of  their  own 
happiness.     Those  were  all. 

The  dusk  came  early  and  damply  in  the  woods.  They 
went  back  to  the  Inn,  a  little  chilled,  and  Freda  brushed 
her  hair  into  neatness  and  went  down  to  meet  her  husband 
in  the  dining-room.  It  was  a  strange  and  familiar  feeling 
to  see  him  standing  by  the  door  waiting  for  her.  They 
were  very  hungry  and  talkative  now.     With  the  darkness 


148  Spellbinders 

outside,  intimacy  pressed  closer  upon  them  and  they  were 
shy  of  it,  deliciously  shy,  enticing  it  closer  to  them  by  their 
evasion  of  it. 

So  after  their  dinner  they  sat  in  the  little  guest  parlor 
of  the  Inn  and  watched  each  other,  talking  about  irrelevan- 
cies  until  the  whiz  of  a  motor  outside  made  Freda  start. 

"You  know,  Gregory,  I'd  sooner  go  upstairs.  I  know 
some  of  the  people  who  sometimes  come  here.  I'd  rather 
not  see  them  to-night." 

"Yes,  darling." 

In  their  bedroom  the  muslin  curtains  were  tugging  at 
their  sashes,  trying  to  pull  themselves  free.  A  breeze  of 
thick  soft  coolness  came  through  the  room.  Freda  felt  as 
if  her  heart  would  burst  with  very  wonder.  Life  to  be 
known  so  deeply — so  soon.  And,  as  was  strange  and 
frequent  with  her  she  lost  the  sense  of  everything  except 
Life,  a  strange  mystery,  a  strange  progress,  of  which  she 
was  an  inevitable  part,  spreading  about  her,  caressing  her, 
absorbing  her.  She  was  not  thinking  of  Gregory,  until 
he  came,  knocking  so  absurdly,  so  humbly  on  the  fragile 
door  that  her  mind  leapt  into  sudden  pity,  and  personal 
love. 

"You  are  like  a  white  taper  before  the  altar  of  love," 
breathed  Gregory. 

Around  them  in  the  soft  darkness  the  breeze  played 
lightly.  Beneath  was  the  sound  of  dance  music,  of 
occasional  laughter.  They  heard  nothing  to  distress  them 
in  their  complete  isolation.  Only  when  the  music  became 
tender,  falling  into  the  languorous  delicacy  of  a  waltz  it 
added  witchery  to  their  rapture. 


ii 

In  the  morning  it  was  Gregory  who  was  the  practical 
one — Freda    the    mystic.     Her    mind    was    filled    with 


Life  Entrusted  149 

mystery  and  dulled  with  the  pervading  sense  of  her  hus- 
band. He  was  inconceivably  more  to  her  than  he  had 
been.  She  was  infinitely  rich  with  thought  and  revelation 
and  too  languorous  to  think.  Gregory  overwhelmed  her. 
In  his  spirited  tenderness,  declaring  her  the  miracle  bride 
of  the  world,  talking  an  unending  poem  of  love  to  her,  he 
was  active  now — she  dreamy  and  spent.  He  brought  her 
breakfast  and  sat  beside  her  while  she  ate  it.  And 
suddenly  it  became  clear  to  them  that  their  time  was 
slipping  quickly  by. 

It  had  been  the  plan  to  return  to  the  city  that  night  but 
they  found  it  impossible  to  leave  each  other. 

"If  we  rose  with  the  bawn,  we  could  motor  back,"  said 
Gregory,  "and  I  could  take  the  train  of  abomination  that 
is  bearing  me  somewhere  or  other  into  a  barren  country 
and  you  could  be  rid  of  me  for  a  little.  Oh,  my  darling,, 
the  eternity  of  the  next  weeks  I" 

"The  eternity  that  will  come  after !"  she  said  smiling.       ' 

So  they  decided  to  spend  another  night  in  the  little  inn. 
There  were  several  other  guests  there  but  they  had  a 
feeling  of  owning  the  place.  The  lean,  colored  waiter  in 
the  dining-room  smiled  at  them  and  their  absorption,  and 
gave  them  the  attention  he  usually  reserved  for  those  too 
drunk  to  tip  wisely.  The  chambermaid  found  pins  for 
a  forgetful  Freda  and  smirked  at  her  as  she  gave  them, 
with  full  knowledge  of  the  honeymoon.  Even  the 
manager  on  being  told  they  would  stay  another  night, 
smiled. 

Every  one  smiled.  They  went  for  a  long  walk  in  the 
evening  and  a  carter  gave  them  a  ride  back  to  the  inn. 
What  was  that  but  the  charm  of  luck  which  was  upon 
them? 

It  was  Sunday  night  but  though  there  was  no  dancing, 
people  dropped  in  on  motoring  parties,  ready  to  be  warmed 
by  hot  suppers  before  they  took  the  last  stretch  of  the  ride 


150  Spellbinders 

back  to  the  city.  And  it  was  as  Freda  was  going  upstairs, 
still  in  that  rapt  absorption  which  had  held  her  day  that 
one  of  the  incomers  saw  her  and  stopped  still  in  amaze- 
ment. She  was  in  profile  before  him,  her  head  held  high 
and  she  was  turning  the  curve  of  the  stairs,  walking 
slowly. 

The  observer  walked  up  to  the  desk  and  spoke  to  the 
manager  who  sat  making  out  bills  behind  it.  There  was 
no  visible  register,  though  his  eyes  cast  about  for  one. 

"Who  was  the  lady  who  was  going  upstairs  ?"  he  asked 
unwisely. 

His  manner  did  not  recommend  him. 

"A  lady  who  is  stopping  here,"  said  the  Swedish  lady 
with  some  hostility,  affronted  by  the  casual  question  of 
this  young  gay  fellow.  She  had  observed  Freda  and  was 
unlikely  to  give  out  information  to  young  loafers. 

"I  thought  I  knew  her."  Ted  Smillie  tried  to  get  on 
firmer  ground. 

His  interlocutor  seemed  to  grunt  in  dubiousness. 

He  gave  it  up  and  went  into  the  dining-room,  trying  to 
find  out  more  from  the  waiter.  But  the  waiter  was  not 
too  free.  He  had  not  been  in  a  roadhouse  inn  three  years 
without  learning  a  kind  of  discretion. 

"Lady  and  her  husbun',  suh.  Several  couples  here. 
Couldn't  make  sure,  suh." 

But  Ted  knew  whom  he  had  seen.  He  knew  there  had 
been  no  mistake.  After  all,  except  for  a  flare  of 
jealousy,  even  that  not  too  keen  in  his  increasingly  taste- 
less emotions,  he  would  have  felt  that  the  man  did  not 
matter.  But  if  she  was  that  kind,  why  on  earth  had  she 
turned  him  down  ?  That  would  be  his  reasoning.  And, 
flavoring  the  whole,  that  vitiated  detective  instinct  which 
makes  gossips  of  little  minded  men,  was  interested,  and  he 
was  anxious  to  tell  his  story.  He  did  not  choose  the  two 
men  with  whom  he  was  supping  for  confidants.     He 


Life  Entrusted  151 

managed  to  get  one  of  them  to  ask  to  see  the  register,  just 
on  the  chance  that  it  might  throw  light  on  Freda's 
companion.  But  it  did  not  help  him.  A  party  of  young 
men  and  women  had  sprawled  twenty  or  thirty  names  on 
the  register  last  night.  Ted  did  not  know  them  and  where 
that  party  began  or  ended  he  could  not  tell.  There  was 
not  a  recorded  name  familiar  to  him  for  the  last  three 
days.  He  went  back  to  the  city  with  his  friends  and  the 
Roadside  Inn  grew  quiet. 

Freda  and  Gregory  could  not  sleep.  There  seemed  a 
million  new  thoughts  in  the  mind  of  each  of  them,  con- 
tending with  the  few  hours  they  were  to  be  together. 

"I  can't  bear  to  have  morning  come — and  the  end — •" 
said  Freda  softly.     She  was  more  dependent  now. 

"Say  the  word  and  I'll  cancel  the  contracts." 

"You  couldn't.  You  know  you  said  there'd  be  a 
forfeit.  We'd  be  paying  your  bureau  the  rest  of  our 
lives.  No — you  must  go.  And  I'll  be  happy.  But  when 
you  come  back  you'll  never  go  again.  I'll  be  no  modern 
woman,  I  feel.  I'll  be  the  sort  of  woman  who  cries  when 
her  husband  goes  to  work." 

It  was  delightful  nonsense. 

"I  don't  understand  modern  woman,"  said  Gregory, 
"you're  not  modern.  Modern  is  fashionable — that's  the 
most  of  it.  You  are  eternal,  darling.  You  only  happen 
once  in  a  thousand  years  and  then  only  in  the  dream  of  a 
poet.  I  hate  your  modern  woman,  living  by  her  little 
codebook  of  what  she  shall  give  and  what  she  shall  not 
give — what  children  she  will  bear,  what  income  she  must 
have — who  shall  earn  it.  One  can't  measure  life  that 
way.  It's  got  to  be  measured  by  freedom  or  slavery. 
Either  you're  free  and  brave,  ready  to  sound  depths  of  life 
if  they're  worth  sounding  or  you're  a  slave  and  too 
cowardly  to  do  anything  but  obey  the  rules." 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  in  no  mood  for  discus- 
sion. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WHAT  WAS  TO  BE  EXPECTED 


MONDAY  was  busy  in  Sable  and  Flandon's  office. 
Conferences,  a  dinning  of  telephones,  a  vast  open- 
ing of  mail.  Every  one  was  conscious  of  important  work 
in  transaction.  The  Laidlaw  case  was  having  its  first 
hearing  before  the  District  Court  and  it  was  under- 
stood to  be  worrying,  ticklish  business.  The  Judge  was 
irascible  and  his  point  of  view  of  the  case  important 
from  this  first  hearing.  Both  the  partners  were  at  the 
office  by  half  past  nine  and  left  together,  one  of  the 
younger  lawyers  accompanying  them,  much  as  young 
doctors  are  present  at  a  skillful  operation,  to  learn  and 
observe. 

Freda,  watching  and  hearing  much  of  the  office  talk, 
discreet  as  it  was,  wished  she  could  have  gone  along  too. 
She  was  feeling  very  fit,  buoyed  up  by  the  first  strength 
of  separation  when  it  is  a  delight  to  feel  one's  capacity 
for  cheerfulness  and  bravery  in  the  midst  of  loneliness. 
She  wanted  to  plunge  very  hard  into  work,  to  do  some- 
thing important,  to  get  thoroughly  absorbed  in  her  work 
and  not  to  dawdle  into  dreams.  So  she  told  herself 
strongly.  At  night,  when  she  was  alone,  she  would  live 
with  her  memories  and  her  dreams.  It  was  youth's 
swagger  in  the  presence  of  emotion.  She  was  busy  until 
Flandon  left  the  office,  making  memoranda  of  things  to  be 
done,  getting  papers  for  him,  keeping  him  from  telephone 
interruptions.     But  after  ten  o'clock  the  office  settled 

152 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected      153 

down  and  became  quiet.  The  clerks  were  hammering 
away  endlessly  at  their  typewriters,  the  few  clients  who 
came  in  were  quickly  taken  care  of,  and  Freda  found  her- 
self harder  to  control.  She  was  looking  up  a  list  of 
references  that  Mr.  Flandon  wanted  ready  by  noon  and 
answering  his  telephone.  It  was  not  absorbing  work. 
Try  as  she  would,  her  mind  slipped  away  from  her  and 
concentrated  on  amazing  facts. 

She  was  a  married  woman.  A  week  ago  she  had  been 
a  girl  visiting  at  the  home  of  the  Brownleys\  Rapid 
enough  the  events  which  had  led  to  her  working  here — 
but  this  other  secret  whirlwind — how  strange  it  all  was. 
She  wondered  if  lives  were  like  that.  Going  along 
placidly  enough  until  they  struck  the  edge  of  the  waterfall 
of  circumstance  and  then — .  All  lives  must  have  secret 
strange  places.  She  had  loved,  in  Mohawk,  to  reflect  on 
those  sometimes.  Spoon  River  had  never  quite  gone  out 
of  her  mind.  She  had  always,  since  she  had  read  it,  seen 
people  as  other  than  the  reflection  of  their  acts  and 
seeming — speculating  on  the  curious  contradictions  of 
appearances  and  motives.  Here  she  sat,  working,  Gage 
Flandon's  clerk,  Eric  Thorstad's  daughter.  And  those 
two  things  mattered  not  at  all — gave  no  key  to  her.  It 
mattered  only  that  she  was  the  wife,  the  secret  wife  of  a 
man  whom  she  had  known  six  days.  Physically, 
chemically,  actually  she  was  altered.  That  was  life. 
When  you  found  it,  you  held  it  to  you  secretly.  You 
never  told.  That  was  why  you  couldn't  tell  about  people. 
Life  might  be  caressing  them,  making  itself  known  to 
them,  biting  them.  Over  it  all  the  vast  illusion  of  action. 
It  was  illusion. 

The  morning  drifted  by.  At  a  little  after  twelve  Mr. 
Sable  and  Mr.  Flandon  came  in  together.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that  things  had  not  gone  well.  They  were  self- 
contained,  sober,  but  the  lines  of  Gage's  face  were  ugly 


154  Spellbinders 

and  those  of  his  partner  disapprovingly  set.  They  went 
into  Mr.  Sable's  office  and  closed  the  door.  Freda, 
getting  on  her  hat  and  coat,  heard  the  young  lawyer  who 
had  accompanied  them,  speaking  to  a  colleague. 

"Didn't  go  well.  Flandon  got  Judge  Pratt  mad. 
Something  got  under  Flandon's  skin  and  he  didn't  play 
the  old  judge  very  well." 

That  was  all  she  heard. 

At  the  moment  Gage  was  hearing  the  same  thing. 
Sable  was  walking  about  the  office  in  some  irritation 
explaining  it. 

Gage  had  continued  to  handle  his  work  badly  at  the 
office.  Like  many  a  man  with  a  hobby  he  took  his  hobby 
into  business  hours.  But  the  concession  which  might  be 
made  to  a  man  on  account  of  golf,  on  account  of  curling, 
were  not  to  be  made  for  a  man  who  had  a  boresome  way 
of  bringing  in  the  eternal  question  of  whether  women  were 
progressing  or  "actually  retrogressing,"  "whether  all  this 
woman  movement  weren't  a  mistake," — and  so  on. 
Needing  support,  comfort,  consolation,  encouragement 
and  direction,  Gage,  as  he  felt  about  for  them,  only  be- 
came somewhat  absurd. 

Men  are  not  tolerant  of  those  who  bore  them,  except 
sometimes  in  the  family,  where  such  things  are  endured 
for  practical  reasons.  They  moved  away  from  Gage,  so 
to  speak,  while  he  talked  on. 

Sable  noticed  it.  He  had  his  own  irritation,  growing 
more  focused  each  day.  To  begin  with,  they  would  lose 
the  Laidlaw  case  and  it  was  all,  Sable  thought,  due  to  that 
false  start  which  Gage  had  made.  He  had  rather 
decisively  taken  the  matter  out  of  Gage's  hands  towards 
the  end  but  the  thing  had  been  lost  already — or  he 
preferred  to  think  so.  Sable  could  bear  to  lose  cases  but 
not  a  case  which  involved  so  much  money.  It  frightened 
off  the  right  sort  of  clients. 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected       155 

When  Gage  was  a  cub  lawyer,  arguing  cases  with 
flaring  energy  in  the  local  courts,  Sable  had  picked  him 
out  as  a  bright  young  man.  He  had  kept  his  eye  on  him 
and  his  progress,  with  sheer  admiration  for  the  practical 
genius  with  which  he  picked  up  important  clients  and 
gained  and  held  their  confidence.  He  edged  in  on  politics 
after  a  little — and  in  Mr.  Sable's  own  party.  Then  King 
and  Sable  had  made  a  proposition  to  young  Flandon — 
that  he  join  them,  bringing  his  clients,  of  course,  and 
coming  in,  not  as  an  ordinary  apprentice  lawyer  but  as 
the  colleague  of  Mr.  Sable.  It  was  an  amazing  offer  to 
be  made  to  so  young  a  man.  Gage  accepted  it.  Two 
years  later  King,  rather  elderly  now  and  ready  to  retire, 
went  to  Congress  and  the  firm  name  changed  from  King 
and  Sable  to  Sable  and  Flandon.  Flandon  made  good. 
He  made  important  alliances  for  Mr.  Sable,  he  played  the 
political  end  for  Mr.  King,  he  made  money  for  himself. 

These  things  were  not  to  be  passed  lightly  over  and  Mr. 
Sable  had  them  all  docketed  somewhere  in  his  mind.  He 
was  fond  of  Gage  too,  in  his  own  restrained  way.  But 
Sable  was  fifty-eight.  He  had  seen  many  a  brilliant  start 
end  in  disaster,  many  a  man  with  ability  fail.  He  knew 
most  of  the  signs  of  failure  in  men.  He  knew  further 
exactly  what  steps  Gage  should  take  to  achieve  eminence. 
They  were  broad  and  fair  before  him.  Instead  it  was 
increasingly  clear  that  Gage  was  not  keeping  his  mind 
on  his  work — that  he  was  letting  his  nerves  get  the  better 
of  his  judgment.  For  some  reason  or  other  he  was 
making  a  fool  of  himself.  When  a  man  made  a  fool  of 
himself,  there  were,  in  Sable's  experience,  one  of  three 
things  back  of  it — a  woman,  liquor  or  speculation.  He 
was  watching  Gage  to  see  which  of  these  things  it  might 
be  in  his  case. 

All  this  talk  which  Flandon  was  always  getting  off 
about  women  now — thought  the  senior  partner — that  was 


156  Spellbinders 

camouflage.  He  felt  fairly  convinced  that  Gage  must  be 
playing  the  fool  with  some  woman.  Irregular  and  dis- 
appointing, with  a  lovely,  fine  looking,  distinguished  wife 
like  Mrs.  Flandon.  Rotten  streak  in  Flandon  probably. 
Sable  chose  the  woman  solution  rather  definitely.  Gage 
drank  when  he  could  get  it  of  course.  And  he  nearly 
always  had  a  supply  on  hand.  But  he  used  his  head  about 
it  pretty  well.  It  didn't  seem  like  liquor  trouble.  As  for 
speculation — surely  he  wouldn't  play  the  fool  there. 
There  was  plenty  of  money  coming  to  Gage,  and  he  always 
could  get  more. 

It  must  be  a  woman.  Probably  Flandon  was  trying 
to  keep  it  from  his  wife  and  that  was  what  was  on  his 
nerves.  Some  little — Sable  characterized  Gage's  vision- 
ary lady  impolitely.  He  thought  on,  his  mind  lighting, 
for  no  apparent  reason,  on  Freda.  And  there  it  stopped. 
Queer,  Flandon's  bringing  that  girl  into  the  office.  Bright 
enough  but  no  experience.  Unlike  him  too,  considering 
his  usual  impatience  with  inexpert  assistance.  He 
wondered — 

So  while  the  Brownley  girls  gossiped  in  ugly,  furtive, 
rather  lustful  conversations  and  Ted  Smillie  told  his  little 
discovery  on  occasion  as  being  an  instance  of  what  those 
"smooth  touch-me-not  girls  were  usually  up  to" — while 
Mr.  Sable,  his  mouth  tight  in  repression  and  his  eyes  keen, 
watched  and  noted  Freda.  Freda  went  on  her  serene 
way.  She  was  serene  and  she  was  happy.  At  times  her 
happiness  seemed  to  shut  her  completely  off  from  every 
one — even  in  her  thoughts  from  her  father.  She  never 
tired  of  exploring  her  memory  for  the  sound  of  Gregory's 
voice,  the  touch  of  his  hands,  the  mystery  of  love.  More 
and  more  as  the  days  went  by  she  hugged  her  secret  to 
herself.  She  could  not  have  shared  a  vestige  of  it.  Its 
exquisite  privacy  was  part  of  its  quality.  She  had  the 
vaguest  notions  of  what  might  be  waiting  her  as  Gregory's 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected      157 

wife.  Certainly  she  might  have  a  baby — normally  that 
probably  would  happen  to  her  in  the  next  nine  months. 
Gregory  was  poor.  They'd  have  to  work.  And  there 
might  be  hard  things.  She  thought  once  or  twice  that  it 
might  be  an  ugly  sort  of  proposition  if  she  did  not  have 
the  particular  feeling  she  did  for  Gregory.  But  there  it 
was.  It  wasn't  a  matter  of  the  mind — nor  of  physiology 
either.  She  didn't  believe  it  was  physiology  which  made 
her  deliciously  faint  and  weak  as  she  read  Gregory's 
strange  letters — letters  so  frequent,  so  irregular,  so 
curiously  timed  and  written — on  the  back  of  a  menu,  on 
a  scrap  of  envelope,  on  a  dozen  sheets  of  hotel  paper. 
Each  message,  beating,  alive,  forcing  its  entrance.  This 
was  the  love  that  according  to  Margaret  was  the  undoing 
of  her  sex.  She  knew  she  would  go  anywhere  Gregory 
wanted  her  to  go,  to  be  with  him.  That  she  knew  her 
life  with  him  would  have  its  independence  completely  in  so 
far  as  her  own  love  allowed  it,  did  not  make  it  less  clear 
to  her  that  even  if  the  independence  had  been  less,  if  she 
had  found  him  a  man  of  convention  she  would  none  the 
less — but  would  she? 

She  was  immensely  interested  in  possibly  having  a 
baby,  and  anxious  to  know  about  it.  She  wanted  to  tell 
Gregory.  She  wrote  him  letters  in  which  she  spent  the 
deepest  of  her  thought.  She  said  things  in  her  letters 
which  would  have  astounded  her  if  she  had  read  them 
over.  But  she  never  did  read  them  after  she  had  written 
them.  It  would  have  seemed  almost  like  cheating  to  read 
them  as  if  for  criticism. 

But  to-day  she  had  not  had  a  letter  from  Gregory  and 
several  unpleasant  things  broke  in  upon  her  absorbed 
happiness.  She  missed  his  letter  which  she  usually  went 
home  at  noon  to  get.  In  the  afternoon  as  she  sat  at  her 
desk  working  and  trying  to  feel  that  she  could  fill  up  the 
time  until  she  went  home  that  night  to  see  if  there  was  a 


158  Spellbinders 

letter,  Bob  and  Allison  Brownley  came  in  with  another 
young  girl.  They  were  as  resplendent  as  usual  and  Freda 
judged  that  they  were  collecting  for  some  fashionable 
charity,  from  their  intrusion  with  pencils  and  notebooks. 
She  had  seen  women  invade  these  offices  almost  every  day 
for  some  such  reason  but  it  was  her  first  encounter  with 
Bob  since  that  night  on  which  she  had  left  her  house. 
To  her  horror  she  found  herself  flushing,  and  hoping  that 
Barbara  would  not  notice  her  and  that  thought  enraged 
her  so  that  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  full  at  the  girls 
coming  towards  Mr.  Flandon's  office,  evidently  referred 
to  her. 

She  expected  some  embarrassment  in  Barbara  and 
instead  met  a  glance  of  insolence  and  surprise.  She 
looked  at  Allie  but  Allie  looked  away  and  left  it  to 
Barbara. 

"Can  I  take  your  message  ?"  asked  Freda  with  a  little 
hauteur. 

"We  prefer  to  see  Mr.  Flandon  personally,"  said 
Barbara,  and  went  by.  It  was  in  Freda's  mind  to  stop 
them  but  Barbara  was  swift.  Freda  could  hear  Mr. 
Flandon's  voice  greeting  her  and  judged  it  was  too  late 
to  do  anything.  She  sat  down  at  her  desk  frowningly 
and  was  further  surprised  when  the  door  opened  very 
shortly  and  the  girls  went  out.  They,  especially  Barbara, 
had  heads  unpleasantly  held,  angrily  tilted.  The  buzzer 
sounded  for  Freda. 

She  found  her  employer  sitting  at  his  desk  looking  as 
angry  as  his  departing  guests. 

"Sit  down  a  moment,  Miss  Thorstad,  will  you?" 

She  did  as  he  told  her.  It  was  evident  that  he  had 
something  important  and  difficult  to  say.  She  watched 
him.     He  looked  nervous,  tired  too,  she  thought. 

"That  young  lady  made  some  unpleasant  remarks  about 
you  and  I  asked  her  to  leave  the  office,"  he  said. 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected       159 

"Oh — I'm  sorry,"  answered  Freda.  "She's  been 
abominable,  Mr.  Flandon.  But  it's  too  bad  you  should 
have  been  involved." 

"Don't  let  that  bother  you,"  said  Gage  grimly;  "it's  of 
no  consequence.  But  I  wonder  if  you  ought  to  let  her 
be  quite  so  broadcast  in  her  remarks.  It  could  be 
stopped." 

"It  doesn't  matter — truly  it  doesn't.  Let  her  say  what 
she  pleases.  If  any  one  wants  to  know  the  truth  of  the 
matter  I  always  can  tell  it,  you  see." 

"Would  you  think  it  infernal  impudence  if  I  asked  you 
what  the  truth  was?" 

She  hesitated  and  then  laughed  a  little. 

"You  know  the  funny  thing  is  that  I  had  almost 
completely  forgotten  the  whole  business.  It  seemed 
important  at  the  time  but  it  was  really  trivial.  Except 
for  the  fact  that  it  opened  up  other  things  to  me.  Of 
course  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  want  to  know." 

She  did  tell  him  in  outline,  stressing  the  fact  of  the 
misunderstanding  all  around,  on  the  whole,  dealing  rather 
gently  with  Barbara,  now  that  anger  had  gone  out  of  her. 

"I  had  made  rather  a  fool  of  myself  you  see,"  she 
finished. 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  waiting  for  her  to  go  on. 

"That's  all." 

"I  see.  She— well— ."  He  let  that  pass.  "Now  ordi- 
narily it  is  easy  to  say  that  gossip  and  slander  don't  make 
any  difference  to  a  high  minded  person.  I  think  you  are 
high  minded.  I  do  feel  however  that  she  has  made  this 
incident  a  basis  for  a  kind  of  slander  that  is  dangerous. 
Her  accusations  against  you  are,  from  what  I  hear, 
absolutely  libelous.  It  wouldn't  take  ten  minutes  to  shut 
her  mouth  if  I  could  talk  to  her.  But  I  want  you  to  fully 
refute  her  specific  attacks." 

"I  know.     I  imagine  she  might  say  almost  anything." 


160  Spellbinders 

"Well,  then,  you  have  never  stayed  at  the  Roadside 
Inn,  have  you  ?" 

To  his  amazement  the  face  of  the  girl  in  front  of  him 
changed.  She  had  been  calm  and  half  smiling.  Now 
astonishment,  consciousness,  and  something  like  panic 
showed  in  her  eyes,  her  suddenly  taut  body. 

"Does  she  say  that  ?  How  did  she  know  ?"  There  was 
a  little  moan  of  dismay  in  Freda's  answer. 

Gage's  face  grew  stern.  He  sat  looking  at  the  girl 
across  from  him,  whose  eyes  were  closed  as  if  in  pain. 

"To  lay  her  hands  on  that,"  said  Freda,  under  her 
breath. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Gage  rather  curtly. 

She  lifted  her  face. 

"It  hurts  to  have  any  one  know  that — but  for  her  to 
know  it  most  of  all." 

"Such  things  are  usually  public  knowledge  sooner  or 
later,  my  dear  young  lady.     Clandestine — " 

"Don't  say  that,"  cried  Freda,  her  voice  rising,  "don't! 
use  that  word." 

And  then  as  if  some  gate  had  been  opened  her  words 
poured  out.  "Can't  you  understand  something  being  too 
beautiful  to  be  anything  except  secret  ?  It  was  something 
I  couldn't  have  let  even  those  who  love  me  know  about. 
And  to  have  her  ugly  devastating  hands  on  it!  It  soils 
it.  I  feel  her  ringer  marks  all  over  me.  It  was  mine 
and  she's  stolen  it." 

Her  head  went  down  on  her  arms  on  the  desk  in  front 
of  her.  Gage  watched  her  with  curiosity,  embarrassment 
and  pity.  To  his  mind  this  love  affair  was  a  shady  busi- 
ness but  she  didn't  see  it  so.  That  was  evident.  Her 
abandonment  touched  a  chord  of  sympathy  in  him.  He 
knew  how  she  was  being  rent  by  pain. 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  told  her,  more  gently,  "I'm  afraid 
you've  been  very  unwise." 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected      161 

"No — not  unwise."  She  raised  her  head  and  smiled 
unsteadily.  "I've  been  quite  wise.  It's  just  bad  luck — 
that's  all." 

"Could  you  tell  me  about  it?" 

She  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window,  evidently  trying 
to  compose  herself.  "It's  nothing  that  matters  to  any 
one  but  me.  And  I  suppose  you  are  thinking  things  that, 
even  if  they  don't  matter,  had  better  be  set  straight.  For 
perhaps  you  think  they  matter.  There's  nothing  that 
I've  done  that  I  shouldn't  have  done.  I  was  there  at 
that  Inn — with — with  my  husband.  It  was  just  that  we 
wanted — he  even  more  than  I  at  first  until  I  learned 
why — to  keep  that  little  bit  of  life  for  ourselves.  We 
didn't  want  people  to  know — we  didn't  want  to  share  with 
any  one  except  each  other.  I  know  you  won't  understand 
but  there's  nothing  to  condemn  except  that  we  had  our 
own  way  of — caring." 

"But  I  do  understand,"  answered  Gage,  "and  I'm  glad 
you  told  me.  I  do  most  entirely  understand.  Because 
I've  felt  that  way.     Is  your  husband  here?" 

"He's  gone,"  said  Freda,  "but  he'll  come  back.  You 
see  I  married  Gregory  Macmillan." 

A  memory  of  that  slim,  gaunt  young  poet  came  to 
Gage.  Yes,  this  was  how  he  would  do  it.  And  how 
perfect  they  were — how  beautiful  it  all  was. 

"Mr.  Flandon,"  said  Freda,  "let  them  say  what  they 
please  about  me.  Let  them  talk — they  don't  know  about 
Gregory — or  do  they?" 

"No— they  don't." 

"Then  don't  tell  them,  will  you?  Don't  tell  any  one. 
I  don't  care  what  they  say  now  if  they  don't  lay  their 
hands  on  the  truth.  I  can't  bear  to  have  the  truth  in 
their  mouths.  Please — what  do  I  care  what  any  one 
says?  I  don't  know  any  one.  I  never  see  those  people. 
He  will  be  back  and  we'll  go  away  and  they'll  forget  me." 


162  Spellbinders 

She  was  very  beautiful  as  she  pleaded  with  him,  eyes 
fresh  from  their  tears,  her  face  full  of  resolution. 

"It's  all  right,  my  dear,"  said  Gage,  "no  one  shall 
know.  You  are  right.  Keep  your  memories  to  yourself. 
What  they  say  doesn't  matter." 

He  was  standing  by  her  at  the  window  now,  looking 
down  at  her  with  a  tenderness  that  was  unmistakable.  It 
was  unfortunate  that  at  that  moment  Mr.  Sable  entered 
without  notice. 


ii 

There  was  an  argument  that  night.  Sable  had  forced 
it.  He  had  said  that  Gage  had  to  "cut  it  out  in  his  own 
office." 

Gage  had  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  cutting  it  out 
and  his  partner  said  that  he  definitely  meant  getting  that 
girl  out  of  the  office  at  once. 

"And  my  advice  to  you  is  to  keep  away  from  her  after 
she  is  out." 

The  upshot  was  that  Gage  had  refused.  He  had 
simply  said  that  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  turn 
out  a  useful  employee  simply  because  any  one  disliked 
her  or  thought  evilly  of  her.  Miss  Thorstad  was 
extremely  useful  to  him  and  there  was  nothing  further 
to  say.     At  which  Sable  had  snorted  in  disdain. 

But,  seeing  Gage's  stubbornness  he  had  possibly  guessed 
at  what  might  be  the  depth  of  it  and  grown  milder. 

"It's  a  difficult  business  for  me,  Gage,"  he  said,  "but 
I've  got  to  go  through  with  it.  She  must  leave  the  office. 
We  can't  afford  scandal." 

"Suppose  I  won't  discharge  her?" 

"I'm  not  supposing  any  such  nonsense.  You  aren't 
going  to  act  that  way  unless  you're  crazy." 

"But  if  I  did?" 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected      163 

Sable  looked  at  him. 

"It  means  a  smash  probably.  Don't  let's  talk  foolish- 
ness. You  know  you've  got  too  much  tied  up  in  this 
business  to  let  it  go.  You  couldn't  afford  to  say  you 
smashed  up  your  business  for  a  woman.  That's  not  the 
way  things  are  done.  I  can't  insist  on  your  giving  up  the 
girl  but  I  can  ask  you  to  remove  the  scandal  from  an 
pffice  in  which  not  alone  your  name  is  involved." 

"Such  rotten  minds,"  thought  Gage,  almost  without 
anger.  He  was  feeling  curiously  clear  and  light  and  deft. 
He  had  felt  that  way  ever  since  he  had  found  how  Freda 
felt.  Something  had  been  strengthened  in  his  own 
philosophy  by  her  simple  refusal  to  share  her  secret  with 
every  one.  She  put  other  things  higher  than  the  opinion 
of  gossip.     So  must  he. 

They  let  the  thing  ride  for  a  few  days.  Gage  thought 
of  nothing  else  and  found  himself  dreaming  a  great  deal 
when  he  should  have  been  working,  according  to  Sable. 
He  also  found  that  Helen  was  becoming  almost  anti- 
pathetic to  him.  She  was  to  make  the  seconding  speech 
for  one  of  the  candidates  at  Chicago  and  was  busy  with 
its  preparation.  There  were  conferences  constantly,  and 
she  had  allowed  a  picture  of  herself  with  her  children  to 
be  syndicated.  Gage  found  it  before  him  everywhere 
and  it  enraged  him.  He  felt  it  on  his  raw  mind  as  an 
advertisement  of  the  result  of  their  love,  as  a  dragging 
into  publicity  of  the  last  bond  between  them. 

"I  feel  like  the  husband  of  a  moving  picture  actress," 
he  told  her,  viciously,  one  day. 

She  said  what  she  had  never  meant  to  say.  She  was 
tired  and  full  of  worrying  and  important  matters.  Gage 
and  his  brooding  seemed  childish  and  morbid.  And  she 
had  her  own  secret  grievance. 

"From  what  I  hear  of  your  escapades  at  the  Roadside 
Inn  you  act  like  the  husband  of  one,"  she  retorted. 


164  Spellbinders 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  that.  But  when  the  gossip 
about  Freda  had  reached  her  there  had  come  an  ugly 
coupling  in  her  mind  of  that  gossip  and  Gage's  interest 
in  the  girl.  During  that  very  week-end  Gage  had  been 
absent  from  the  city — on  political  business — he  had  said 
vaguely.  Yet  she  had  tried  to  control  her  suspicions, 
convince  herself  that  there  was  no  cause  for  investigation 
or  accusation.  This  flare  of  hers  was  unexpected  and 
unguarded — dangerous  too. 

A  shudder  of  misery  shot  through  both  of  them  at 
their  own  coarseness.  But  they  were  launched.  And  it 
was  clear  to  Gage  that  in  some  way  or  other  not  only 
Sable  but  Helen  had  thought  him  involved  with  Freda. 
It  did  not  make  him  particularly  angry.  He  rather 
courted  the  injustice  of  the  suspicion  because  it  justified 
him  in  his  own  position.  This  was  where  this  business 
of  Helen's  had  landed  them  then.  Alienated,  loveless, 
suspicious — this  was  the  natural  outcome  of  the  whole 
thing.  Minds  running  on  sex  all  the  time — that  was 
what  happened  to  these  women — yet  without  delicacy, 
without  reserve.  So  3he  thought  he  was  like  that,  did 
she?  She  was  thinking  that  sort  of  viciousness  while 
he'd  been  trying  to  protect  her  even  from  himself.  What 
was  the  use  of  it  all  ? 

"I  don't  know  what  you  hear  of  my  escapades  as  you 
call  them,"  he  answered.  "Possibly  you  might  inform 
me?" 

She  was  sick  with  shame  at  her  own  impulse  but 
perhaps  it  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  her  mind  corroding 
it  more  than  she  knew. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  that,  Gage." 

"You  must  have  meant  something." 

He  was  insistent,  brutal.  He  would  have  the  truth 
out  of  her.  He  wanted  the  inside  of  her  mind,  to  torture 
himself  with  it  if  he  could.     He  wanted  it  over  with. 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected      165 

"Not  to-night,  Gage.  I'm  tired.  Let's  talk  over  some 
of  these  things  when  we  are  both  fresh.     I — I  apologize." 

She  moved  towards  the  door  of  the  living-room  on  her 
way  upstairs.  But  Gage  caught  her  hand.  He  stood 
looking  down  at  her  and  as  she  met  his  eyes  she  saw  that 
his  face  was  almost  strange.  His  eyes  looked  queer. 
They  were  brutal,  excited,  strange  glints.  His  mouth 
seemed  to  hang  loose  and  heavy. 

"Not  to-night,  Gage,"  she  repeated.  In  her  voice  was 
a  droop  of  weariness  that  was  unmistakable. 

"Why  not  to-nigiht  ?  Because  you  want  to  save  your- 
self fresh  for  your  public  to-morrow?  You  don't  want 
to  be  bothered  with  a  husband  and  his  annoyances?" 

"Not  to-night  because  you  aren't  in  the  right  mood." 

He  still  held  her  hand. 

"But  suppose  I  want  to  go  into  it  to-night.  There'll 
be  no  better  time.  Day  after  to-morrow  my  wife  goes  to 
the  National  Convention  to  dazzle  the  American  public. 
Suppose  she  sets  her  house  in  order  first.  Every  good 
politician  does  that,  Helen." 

"There's  a  devil  in  you,  Gage,  isn't  there?" 

"A  hundred,  and  every  one  bred  by  you.  Tell  me, 
what  you  were  referring  to  as  my  escapades?    Tell  me." 

He  shook  her  a  little.  She  felt  a  hairpin  loosened  and 
the  indignity  suddenly  made  her  furious. 

"Let  me  go." 

"I  will  not  let  you  go.     I  want  you  to  tell  me." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  sihe  said  bitterly,  her  words  coming  as 
if  anger  pushed  them  out.  "Heaven  knows  I've  tried  to 
conceal  it  even  from  myself.  But  your  viciousness  shows 
you've  got  a  rotten  conscience.  When  you  took  that 
Thorstad  girl  into  your  office  I  wondered  why — and  then 
after  I  told  you  she'd  been  seen  at  that  place  with  a  man, 
your  silly  defence  of  her  might  have  told  me  what  was 
the  situation.     You  talk  of  her — all  the  time — all  the 


166  Spellbinders 

time.  You  were  away  that  week-end.  Where  were  you 
if  you  weren't  with  her?" 

He  let  her  go  then.  She  had  said  it.  It  was  said,  as 
he  had  wanted  it  said.  He  felt  triumphant.  And  he 
would  give  her  no  satisfaction.  He  would  hurt  her — 
and  hurt  her. 

She  went  on  in  a  tumbled  burst  of  words. 

"I  don't  blame  the  girl,  though  she's  a  little  fool.  But 
I  won't  stand  having  her  let  in  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Why  not  ?"  asked  Gage,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "Isn't  it 
a  perfectly  proper  thing  for  a  modern  woman  to  choose 
her  lovers  where  she  will?" 

Helen  felt  herself  grow  dizzy,  not  at  his  question  but 
at  the  admission  it  made.  She  drew  herself  up  and  Gage 
wondered  at  her  beauty  with  a  hot  surge  of  desire  even 
while  he  wanted  to  torture  her  more.  It  was  such  a 
relief  to  have  found  a  weapon. 

"Come,"  he  went  on,  "we  won't  discuss  that  young 
lady.  There's  not  a  thing  in  the  world  against  her.  If 
you  have  been  bending  your  ear  to  the  ground  and  heard 
a  lot  of  rotten  gossip  I'm  not  responsible.  If  the  people 
who  talk  about  her  had  half  her  quality — " 

"I  warn  you,  Gage,  you're  going  to  pieces,"  interrupted 
Helen.  "I  can't  stop  you  if  you're  determined  to  ruin 
yourself.  But  you've  acted  like  a  pettish  child  for  months 
about  the  fact  that  I  wanted  to  do  some  work  you  didn't 
approve  of,  apparently  you've  run  off  and  got  mixed  up 
with  this  girl,  you've  been  drinking  far  too  much — you 
had  whisky  before  breakfast  this  morning — it's  beginning 
to  tell  on  you." 

"I  miss  you,  Helen,"  said  Gage  with  a  kind  of  sinister 
sarcasm. 

She  shivered. 

"I'm  going  upstairs." 

"We're  not  through." 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected       167 

"Yes,  we  are." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  divorce  me — or  would  that  hurt 
your  career?" 

"You're  not  yourself,  Gage,"  said  Helen.  She  had 
regained  a  loose  hold  on  herself.  "I'd  sooner  not  talk 
to  you  any  more  to-night." 

He  flattened  the  end  of  his  lighted  cigarette  and  pulled 
the  chain  of  the  table  light. 

"Then  we'll  talk  upstairs." 

"Not  to-night." 

"Yes,  we  will,  Helen.  I'm  lonely  for  you."  He  came 
to  where  she  stood.     "Come  along,  my  dear." 

There  was  not  a  tone  in  his  voice  that  Helen  could 
recognize.     A  kind  of  ugly  caress — she  shuddered. 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  shoulders. 

"Gage — you  mustn't  touch  me  like  this." 

He  laughed  at  her. 

"It's  quite  the  new  way,  as  I  understand  it,  my  dear, 
isn't  it  ?  Nature — openness — no  false  modesties,  no  false 
sentiments.  After  all  we  are  married — or  to  be  more 
modern,  we're  openly  living  together.  The  pictures  in 
the  paper  prove  it.  There's  no  use  being  silly.  You've 
had  your  way  a  lot  lately — now  how  about  mine  ?" 

He  pulled  her  close  to  him  and  pushing  back  her  head 
sought  her  lips  roughly,  as  if  he  were  dying  of  thirst  and 
cared  little  what  healthy  or  unhealthy  drink  he  had  found. 


in 

"You  know,"  said  Cele  Nesbitt  to  Freda,  "I  think  Mr. 
Flandon  acts  kind  of  queer,  don't  you?" 

"He's  tired,  probably,"  she  told  Cele. 

"Doesn't  look  tired.  He  seems  so  excited.  I  thought 
he  and  old  Sable  must  be  having  a  row.  I  went  into 
Sable's  office  with  some  papers  to-day  and  there  they  were 


168  Spellbinders 

glowering  at  each  other  and  mum  as  oysters  all  the  time 
I  was  in  the  room.  They  don't  stop  talking  business 
when  I'm  around." 

"Well,  don't  worry  about  them,"  answered  Freda, 
"Mr.  Flandon  is  the  kindest  person  I  know  and  there's 
something  wrong  with  people  who  can't  agree  with  him." 

"Hate  him,  don't  you?"  Cele  teased  her.  "Isn't  it  a 
pity  he's  married.  And  such  a  stunning  wife  and 
children.  Did  you  see  her  picture  on  Sunday?  She 
ought  to  be  in  the  movies  instead  of  politics  with  that 
hair." 

Except  for  Margaret  Freda  saw  only  one  other  person 
at  very  close  range.  That  was  Gage's  stenographer, 
Cecilia  Nesbitt,  commonly  known  as  Cele.  Cele  was  a 
joyous  soul  who  had  taken  a  liking  to  Freda  and  shortly 
invited  her  to  come  home  for  dinner.  Freda  had  gone 
and  been  made  happy  and  intimate  at  once.  There  were 
all  the  traces  of  the  cottage  that  the  Nesbitts  had  before 
they  moved  to  St.  Pierre — old  rattan  rocking  chairs  and 
scroll  topped  beds.  Over  everything,  invading  every- 
thing was  the  Church.  There  was  a  little  holy  water  font 
inside  the  door,  there  were  pictures  and  holy  cards  framed 
and  unframed  everywhere,  crucifixes  over  the  beds,  holy 
pictures  in  the  bureau  frames  and  rosaries  on  the  bed 
posts.  To  Freda  in  her  sparsely  religious  home,  God  had 
been  a  matter  of  church  on  Sunday  and  not  much  more 
than  that  except  a  Bible  for  reference  and  a  general 
astronomical  warder  at  the  enormity  of  God's  achieve- 
ments. This  difference — this  delightful  easy  intimacy 
with  God  was  all  fascinating.  This  was  the  comfort  of 
religion,  religion  by  your  bedside  and  at  your  table.  She 
expanded  under  it.  There  was  a  plenitude  of  Nesbitts, 
sleeping  rather  thickly  in  the  four  bedrooms — two 
brothers,  young  men  of  twenty  or  thereabouts — there  was 
Cele  after  them  and  then  two  younger  girls  of  ten  and 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected       169 

thirteen  and  stepping  rapidly  downward  the  twins  of  nine, 
Mrs.  Nesbitt  having  finished  her  family  with  a  climax, 
especially  as  the  twins  were  boys  and  made  up  for  being 
altar  boys  on  Sunday  by  being  far  from  holy  on  all  other 
occasions.  Still  their  serving  of  Mass  endowed  them  in 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Nesbitt  with  peculiar  virtues.  She  had 
a  gently  conciliatory  Irish  way  towards  her  sons  rather 
different  from  her  tone  to  her  daughters.  Freda  con- 
trasted it  with  some  amusement  with  the  cold  classicism 
of  Margaret's  attitude.  To  Mrs.  Nesbitt  they  were 
obviously  slightly  inferior  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man, 
being  female,  to  be  cherished  indeed,  frail  perhaps,  and 
yet  not  made  in  the  exact  image  of  the  Creator. 

They  were  headed  for  the  Nesbitt  flat.  Freda  had  no 
letter  from  Gregory,  had  had  none  for  two  days  and  her 
heart  felt  as  if  it  were  thickening  and  sinking.  She 
would  not  let  it  be  so.  She  set  to  work  to  make  herself 
interested.  She  would  not  mope.  It  was  not  in  her  to 
mope.  But  she  did  not  know  where  Gregory  was,  for 
his  last  letter  had  said  he  was  waiting  advice  from  the 
bureau — one  of  his  talks  having  been  cancelled — and  that 
he  didn't  know  where  he  would  go  now.  It  did  not 
make  her  worried  or  nervous  but  she  had  been  drugging 
her  emotions  with  his  letters  and  the  sudden  deprivation 
hurt  her  cruelly.  So  she  was  going  home  with  Cele  to 
forget  it. 

They  got  on  the  street  car  and  hung  from  their  straps 
with  the  nonchalance  of  working  girls  who  have  no  hopes 
or  wishes  that  men  will  give  up  their  seats  to  them,  their 
attitude  strangely  different  from  that  of  some  of  the 
women,  obviously  middle  class  housewives,  who  com- 
mandeered seats  with  searching,  disapproving,  nagging 
eyes.  Freda  loved  this  time  of  day — the  sense  of  being 
with  people  all  going  to  their  places  of  living,  fraught 
with  mystery  and  possibility.     Her  spirits  rose.     She  was 


170  Spellbinders 

not  thinking  sadly  of  Gregory.  She  thought  of  how  her 
intimate  thought  and  knowledge  of  him  reached  out,  over 
her  un  familiarity  with  these  others,  touching  him 
wherever  he  was,  in  some  place  unknown  to  her.  The 
thought  put  new  vigor  into  her  loneliness. 

It  was  an  oppressively  hot  evening  for  June.  They 
climbed  the  three  flights  to  the  Nesbitt  flat  with  diminish- 
ing energy  and  Cele  sank  on  one  of  the  living-room  chairs 
in  exhaustion  as  she  went  in. 

"Hot  as  hell,"  she  breathed.  "Let's  sit  down  a  minute 
before  we  wash,  Freda." 

Freda  took  off  her  hat  and  brushed  her  hair  back  with 
her  hand. 

"Pretty  hot  all  right.     Bad  weather  for  dispositions." 

"My  idea  of  this  kind  of  weather  is  that  it's  pre- 
paration for  the  hereafter." 

Mrs.  Nesbitt  opened  the  door  to  the  kitchen  and  hot 
heavy  smells  from  the  cooking  food  came  through  to  the 
girls.  But  Mrs.  Nesbitt  herself,  mopping  great  hanging 
drops  of  sweat  from  her  forehead,  was  serene  enough. 
She  shook  hands  with  Freda  with  vast  smiling  cordiality. 

"You're  as  cool  looking  as  the  dawn,"  she  said  to  her. 
"Are  you  tired,  dear?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

"There's  a  little  droop  to  your  eyes,  dear.  I  thought 
maybe  it  was  bad  news  now." 

Freda  had  a  sudden  impulse  to  confidence,  a  leap  of  the 
mind  towards  it.     But  she  drew  back. 

"No — not  bad  news  at  all." 

"Your  mother  and  father's  well?" 

"My  mother  is  coming  to  see  me  for  a  few  days,  I 
think.  She's  going  to  Chicago  for  the  Convention  for 
the  clubs  and  she'll  come  back  this  way  to  see  me." 

"Now,  isn't  that  the  blessing  for  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Nesbitt  rejoicingly. 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected       171 

The  family  streamed  in,  the  boys  from  their  work  and 
the  twins  from  school.  Last  came  Mr.  Nesbitt,  his  tin 
lunch  pail  in  his  hand,  his  feet  dragging  with  weariness. 
They  talked  of  the  heat,  all  of  them,  making  it  even 
more  oppressive  than  it  was  by  their  inability  to  escape  the 
thought  of  it.  And  Mrs.  Nesbitt  who  knew  nothing  of 
salads  and  iced  tea,  or  such  hot  weather  reliefs  stirred  the 
flour  for  her  gravy  and  set  the  steaming  pot  roast  before 
her  husband.  They  ate  heavily.  Freda  tried  to  keep 
her  mind  on  what  she  was  doing.  She  talked  to  the  boys 
and  let  Mrs.  Nesbitt  press  more  food  on  her  unwilling 
appetite.  It  was  very  unwilling.  She  did  not  want  to 
eat.  She  wanted  to  sit  down  and  close  her  eyes  and 
forget  food  and  heat  and  everything  else — except 
Gregory. 

Vaguely  she  was  aware  of  Mr.  Nesbitt  talking. 

"It  was  in  the  paper  and  no  more  stir  made  of  it  than 
if  a  stray  dog  was  run  over  by  an  automobile — shot  down 
they  were,  martyrs  to  Ireland."  His  voice  was  oratori- 
cal, funereal,  heavy  with  resentment. 

"Who?"  asked  Freda. 

"Fine  young  Irishmen  with  the  grace  of  God  in  their 
hearts  shot  down  by  the  hired  wastrels  of  the  Tyrants. 
Gentlemen  and  patriots." 

"What  an  outrage  it  is,"  she  answered. 

He  burst  into  invective  at  her  sympathy,  rolling  his 
mighty  syllabled  words  in  denunciation,  and  his  family 
sat  around  and  listened  in  agreement  yet  in  amusement. 

"Come  now,  pop,  you'll  be  going  back,  if  you  get  as 
hot  under  your  shirt  as  all  that,"  said  Mike. 

"It's  too  hot  for  excitement,  pa,"  Mrs.  Nesbitt  con- 
tributed equably.     "Pass  him  the  mustard,  do  you,  Cele." 

"I'll  show  you  a  true  account  of  it  in  The  Irish  News," 
said  Mr.  Nesbitt,  to  Freda,  ignoring  his  family. 

He  wiped  his  mouth  noisily  and  abandoned  the  table, 


172  Spellbinders 

coming  back  to  press  into  Freda's  hands  his  Irish  News, 
a  little  out  of  fold  with  much  handling. 

"The  city  papers  tell  you  nothing  but  lies,"  he  said, 
"read  this." 

To  please  him,  Freda  read.  She  read  the  account  of 
the  shooting  of  three  young  men  poets  and  patriots,  whose 
names  struck  her  as  familiar.     And  then  she  read : 

"These  young  martyrs  were  part  of  the  group  who 
banded  together  for  restoration  of  the  Gaelic  tongue  to 
Ireland.  They  with  Seumas,  McDermitt  and  Gregory 
Macmillan  now  on  tour  in  this  country — " 

She  read  it  again.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  wonder  to 
come  on  his  name  here,  his  name  so  secretly  dear,  in  this 
cold  print.  And  then  came  more  than  that.  This  was 
Gregory — her  Gregory  who  might  have  been  killed  too 
if  he  had  been  there — who  might  be  killed  when  he 
returned  to  Ireland.  She  didn't  know  where  he  was. 
Perhaps — perhaps  he  had  heard  of  this  and  gone  back. 
Perhaps  he  had  forgotten,  forgotten  about  her — about 
them.    This  was  so  big — 

She  had  to  take  her  thought  away  from  the  presence 
of  all  these  people.  She  wanted  to  con  it  over — she  must 
get  away.  Suddenly  she  stood  up  and  the  heat  and 
distaste  for  food — the  accurate  sight  of  a  piece  of  brown 
stringy  meat,  embedded  in  lifeless  gravy,  sickened  her. 
She  pressed  her  hand  before  her  eyes  and  swayed  a  little. 

Mrs.  Nesbitt  jumped  up  with  Cele. 

"She's  sick — poor  dear.  The  heat  now  has  quite 
overcome  her." 

They  helped  her  into  the  least  hot  of  the  little  bed- 
rooms and  she  found  herself  very  sick — nauseated — 
chilled  even  while  she  was  conscious  of  the  heat  that 
oppressed  while  it  did  not  warm  her.  The  family  was  all 
astir.  Mr.  Nesbitt  underwent  censure  for  having 
bothered  her.     But  when  Freda,  apologetic  and  recovered, 


What  Was  To  Be  Expected      173 

went  home  on  Mike's  arm,  getting  the  first  breath  of  air 
which  came  as  a  relief  to  the  hot  city,  Mrs.  Nesbitt  came 
into  the  room  where  Cele  hung  half  out  of  the  window 
trying  to  catch  the  breeze. 

"Sick  she  was,  poor  thing." 

"Rotten  heat  got  her.  She's  not  used  to  working, 
either,  I  think.  She  felt  a  lot  better.  Her  stomach  got 
upset  too." 

Mrs.  Nesbitt  pressed  her  lips  together. 

"It  was  a  funny  way  she  was  taken.  If  she  was  a 
married  woman  I  should  have  said  the  cause  was  not  the 
heat." 

"Huh  ?"  said  Cele,  pulling  herself  in.  "What's  that  you 
mean  ?" 

"I  mean  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Nesbitt.  "Nothing  at  all. 
Only  I  would  have  you  always  be  sure  to  make  sure  your 
friends  are  good  girls,  my  darlin'.  Mind  ye,  I  say  nothing 
against  the  young  lady.  But  she's  a  pretty  and  dangerous 
face  and  she's  away  from  her  home  where  by  rights  should 
every  girl  be." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  CONVENTION 


THE  Convention  gathered.  It  was  an  event  signal 
enough  to  make  an  impress  even  on  the  great  city. 
Convention  Week  was  recognized  by  every  one,  hotel  men, 
shop  keepers,  railroad  men,  newspapers,  pickpockets, 
police,  students  in  the  great  universities  at  the  city's 
gates,  and  the  great  subordinate  multitude  which  read  the 
newspapers  and  accepted  the  ruling  of  politics  or  com- 
merce, as  to  which  days  should  be  held  apart — Labor  Day, 
Mother's  Day,  Convention  Week. 

The  streets  were  hung  with  banners,  great,  swinging 
canvas  pieces  of  propaganda,  bearing  crude  likenesses  of 
candidates  and  still  cruder  catchwords  supposed  to 
represent  their  opinions  or  those  of  their  opinions  likely 
to  excite  popular  pleasure.  In  the  hotel  lobbies  men 
swarmed.  Desk  clerks,  sated  with  patronage,  gave 
smiling  and  condescending  negations  to  those  who  applied 
for  rooms.  The  girls  at  the  cigar  counters  and  newspaper 
stands  worked  steadily,  throwing  back  saucy  rejoinders 
to  the  occasional  impudences  of  the  men. 

It  was  mostly  a  gathering  of  men,  a  smoky,  hot, 
sweating  collection  of  men  who  had  a  certain  kind  of 
training  in  this  game  of  conventions  and  politics.  They 
flung  themselves  into  their  parts,  gossiping,  joking, 
occasionally  forceful,  immensely  knowing.  No  one  of 
them  was  there  who  did  not  feel  himself  a  commissioned 
prophet — perhaps  not  as  to  ultimate  but  as  to  tendencies 
anyhow.     They  spoke  the  great  names  with  a  jesting 

174 


The  Convention  175 

respect,  the  lesser  ones  with  camaraderie  or  a  fillip  of 
scorn — but  for  any  suggestion  of  political  idealists  or  of 
women  they  had  a  smile.  They  admitted  the  fact  that 
women  had  been  put  in  the  show  but  it  wasn't  going  to 
change  the  show  any.     They  knew. 

Here  and  there  in  the  hotels  were  groups  of  women, 
well  dressed  for  the  most  part,  some  of  them  handsome, 
all  of  them  more  alert,  less  careless  than  the  men — talking 
wisely  too  but  with  more  imagination,  with  a  kind  of 
excited  doubt  as  to  the  outcome,  and  despite  themselves 
showing  a  delighted  naivete  in  their  bearing  towards  the 
whole  event.  That  was  on  the  first  day  before  the  heat 
had  really  lowered  over  the  city. 

Helen  and  Margaret  had  been  well  provided  for. 
They  had  long  before  engaged  rooms  in  one  of  the  most 
comfortable  hotels  where  previous  patronage  made  Helen 
able  to  choose  her  accommodations.  Gage  who  had  come 
after  all,  had  no  reservations  anywhere  and  apparently  no 
particular  worry  about  them.  He  could  always  get  in 
somewhere  and  he  had  no  intention  of  staying  at  the  same 
hotel  with  Helen  and  Margaret.  He  breakfasted  with 
them  on  the  train  and  enjoyed  it  in  spite  of  himself, 
enjoyed  being  able  to  watch  Helen  and  to  bait  Margaret 
with  political  pessimism  and  a  jocular  scorn  as  to  the 
effect  of  women  on  the  Convention.  When  they  arrived 
he  saw  them  to  their  hotel  and  left  Helen  to  her  "glory" 
he  said,  a  little  mockingly. 

"It's  hot,"  he  said.  "Don't  try  to  make  over  the  whole 
Party  to-day,  my  dear." 

"I  won't,"  said  Helen.  Her  eyes  met  his.  For  thirty- 
six  hours  every  glance,  every  gesture  towards  him  had 
been  unreal,  mechanically  controlled.  She  was  not  ap- 
parently angry — nor  cold.  It  was  rather  as  if  when  she 
spoke  to  him  she  had  no  feeling.  Deep  in  himself,  Gage 
was  frightened.     He  guessed  the  fact  that  anger  is  often 


176  Spellbinders 

a  denial  of  loss  of  illusion  and  that  in  Helen's  utter  lack 
of  response  there  was  something  deadly,  ominous.  A 
glimmer  of  respect  for  her  work  came  as  he  first  saw  her, 
the  morning  after  their  catastrophic  night,  not  moping 
or  storming,  but  studying  notes  for  her  seconding  speech. 
But  the  glimmer  faded.  It  was  because  she  really  didn't 
care.  Shallow  feelings,  easy  to  suppress,  he  told  himself. 
She  had  probably  told  Margaret  about  the  whole  thing 
and  Margaret  had  tipped  her  off  as  to  how  to  behave. 
That  thought  struck  him  and  made  him  curdle  with 
anger  again. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  Helen  there  was  no  doubt  that  he 
would  have  regarded  the  women  with  a  kind  of  tolerance 
and  with  some  speculation  regarding  their  usefulness. 
There  was  a  chance  that  they  might  be  useful.  But  the 
intensity  of  his  feelings,  starting  from  his  invaded  love 
for  his  wife,  from  that  sense  of  exterior  influences  over 
which  he  had  no  control  and  which  he  did  not  trust  coming 
into  the  privacy  of  their  relations,  mauling  those  delicacies 
by  weighing,  appraising  emotions  and  loyalties,  chipping 
off  a  bit  here  and  a  bit  there,  bargaining,  discussing, 
leaving  a  great  imprint  of  self-consciousness  of  the  whole, 
had  spoiled  all  that.  Gage  was  confused.  He  was  in 
revolt  against  a  hundred,  a  thousand  things,  and  that  he 
was  not  quite  sure  of  the  justice  of  his  revolt  made  it  none 
the  easier  for  him. 

He  was  in  the  lobby  of  the  Congress  Hotel,  turning 
away  from  the  cigar  counter,  alone  for  the  minute,  when 
he  felt  a  touch  on  his  arm  and  turned  to  see  Mrs. 
Thorstad.  She  was  dressed  in  a  neat  dark  suit  and  a 
tan  sailor  hat,  rimmed  precisely  with  white  daisies,  looking 
very  competent  and  attractive. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Flandon?"  she  asked. 

He  gazed  down  at  her,  smiling.  She  amused  him  and 
intrigued  him.  When  he  watched  Mrs.  Thorstad  he  felt 
convinced  that  all  his  protest  against  the  progress  of 


The  Convention  177 

women  was  somehow  justified.  It  was  his  quarrel  with 
Margaret  and  the  foundation  of  his  dislike  of  her  that 
he  could  not  get  the  same  feeling  with  her  and  had  to  build 
it  up  with  anger. 

"I  hope  you're  well,,,  he  answered,  as  he  shook  hands 
with  her. 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  Freda. 
You've  given  her  a  great  opportunity  to  find  herself." 

Word  slinging,  thought  Gage.  What  did  she  mean  by 
"finding  herself?" 

"She's  a  great  addition  to  my  office  force."  He 
wondered  what  this  little  person  would  say  if  she  knew, 
as  she  so  obviously  did  not,  of  the  tumultuous  marriage 
of  her  daughter,  of  the  ugly  stream  of  gossip  that  was 
pouring  about  her  feet. 

"I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  the  woman  in  business," 
went  on  Mrs.  Thorstad.  "Of  course  I  confess  I  had 
hoped  that  Freda  would  interest  herself  in  something 
possibly  a  little  more  humanitarian,  something  perhaps  a 
little  more  idealistic — oh,  I  don't  mean  to  decry  the  law, 
Mr.  Flandon,  but  we  can't  help  feeling  that  the  business 
world  lacks  certain  great  ideals — " 

Gage  grinned,  looking  like  a  great  humorous  puppy. 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  excuse  me,  if  you 
will.     I  see  a  man  over  there  I  must  speak  to." 

Mrs.  Thorstad  smiled  in  acquiescence,  leaving  her  chair 
herself.  She  sent  a  dutiful  postal  to  Mr.  Thorstad  and 
went  out  on  the  Avenue  in  front  of  the  hotel.  She  had 
calls  to  make.  The  galling  sense  of  the  fact  that  her 
impress  on  the  Convention  must  be  a  slight  one  was 
undoubtedly  under  her  gallant,  moral  little  smile.  To  be 
sure  she  had  come  to  the  Convention,  she  had  a  seat 
reserved,  she  was,  as  she  always  would  be,  taking  what 
she  could  get,  but  if  Margaret  Duffield  had  not  come  West 
it  might  have  been  more. 

None  the  less  she  called  on  Miss  Duffield  and  Mrs. 


178  Spellbinders 

Flandon.  She  found  them  at  their  hotel  where  con- 
gregated a  brilliant  circle.  Harriet  Thompson,  renowned 
from  coast  to  coast  as  a  leader  of  women,  was  there. 
She  was  a  rather  plain  woman  of  forty-five,  lean  faced 
with  good  brown  eyes  and  a  rather  disconcerting  way  of 
seeming  to  leap  at  you  intimately  to  discover  what  sort 
of  person  you  were.  And  there  were  Grace  Hawlett, 
the  novelist,  and  the  wives  and  sisters  of  famous 
politicians.  It  was  a  gay,  knowledgeable  group.  Most 
of  the  women  knew  Margaret  and  were  instantly  attracted 
by  Helen's  beauty  and  charm  of  manner.  Margaret 
introduced  Mrs.  Thorstad  as  "one  of  the  best  woman 
organizers  in  the  Middle  West,"  and  they  were  all  cordial. 
Mrs.  Thompson  took  the  Mohawk  leader  aside  for  a  little 
talk.  It  was  astonishing  how  much  Mrs.  Thompson  knew 
about  the  situation  in  St.  Pierre — how  she  had  her  finger 
on  the  strength  of  the  women  and  the  strength  of  the 
organization  in  the  entire  state.  She  put  rapid  questions 
to  Mrs.  Thorstad  and  checked  her  a  little  abruptly  in  the 
middle  of  some  generalities. 

"How  did  you  all  like  Miss  Duffield  ?"  she  asked. 

"Very  much  indeed,"  answered  Mrs.  Thorstad,  with 
the  slightest  pursing  of  lips.  The  keen  brown  eyes  looked 
at  her  for  a  minute.  It  was  not  the  answer  usually  made 
to  a  question  about  Margaret  Duffield. 

Mrs.  Thorstad  departed  to  find  her  own  kind.  She 
knew  she  was  not  at  home  in  that  particular  group  which 
while  it  awed  her  by  its  sparkle  of  mind  and  personality, 
yet  left  her  resentful,  and  she  went  on  the  round  of  her 
further  calls.  She  found  women  with  petty  lobbying  to 
do,  with  little  reputations  which  they  wished  to  secure, 
airing  their  platitudes  and  generalities  to  each  other  in 
heavy  agreement,  talking  of  the  new  day  and  denouncing 
the  vagaries  of  modernity  with  a  fervor  that  was  half 
jealous,  half  fearful. 


The  Convention  179 

Harriet  Thompson  looked  at  Margaret  after  Mrs. 
Thorstad  had  left  them.  She  always  liked  to  look  at 
Margaret.  The  serenity  in  her  calm  face,  the  touch  of 
austerity  which  kept  it  from  becoming  placid,  pleased  her. 
She  crossed  to  where  she  was  sitting. 

"What  did  you  do  to  that  little  person,  Margaret?" 

"I?  I  didn't  do  anything.  She  rather  wanted  to  be 
delegate  at  large  in  Helen's  place,  I  think.  Don't  speak 
of  it  to  Helen.  I  told  Helen  there  was  no  one  else  even 
willing  to  do  it." 

"Your  Mrs.  Flandon  is  a  lovely  person." 

She  wondered,  as  she  said  that,  at  the  soft  flush  of 
enthusiasm  which  came  over  Margaret's  face. 

"Isn't  she?  She's  just  what  you  want,  too.  I  hope 
she  keeps  interested." 

"Isn't  she  very  much  interested?" 

"Yes — but  it's  not  too  easy  for  her.  Her  husband's 
rather  opposed — makes  it  difficult." 

"Odd  that  a  woman  like  that  should  be  married  to  a 
reactionary." 

"He  isn't  at  all  an  ordinary  reactionary,"  said 
Margaret.  "He's  a  politician,  without  any  illusions. 
Hates  all  the  publicity  she  gets.  I  think  he  wants  her 
to  himself  you  see — most  awfully  in  love." 

"He'll  never  have  her  to  himself  if  she  gets  into  this 
game.  She's  the  sort  of  woman,  from  the  little  I've 
seen  of  her  that  we  need.  Brains  and  personality — not 
a  wild  woman  or  an  old  fashioned  suffragist.  Did  she 
reconcile  the  husband  ?" 

"Not  a  bit.  He's  here.  You  ought  to  meet  him. 
But  better  carry  a  weapon." 

"He  might  be  rather  interesting." 

"He  is  all  of  that." 

"After  all,  Margaret,  it  is  rather  hard  on  some  of  these 
men.     I've  seen  it  before.     They  suddenly  have  so  little 


180  Spellbinders 

of  their  wives  to  themselves.  It  affects  them  like  the 
income  tax.  They  hate  to  give  up  so  large  a  share  of 
their  property." 

"To  a  government  they  distrust.  That's  it  with  Gage. 
He  doesn't  mind  Helen  doing  any  amount  of  music.  But 
he  hates  all  kinds  and  forms  of  modern  feminism. 
Thinks  it's  shameless  and  corrupting." 

"It  is  pretty  shameless  and  sometimes  a  little  corrupting. 
There's  a  lot  in  the  man's  point  of  view  that  you  never 
saw,  Margaret.  They're  fighting  for  themselves  of 
course  but  they're  fighting  for  the  sex  too.  It's  all  right, 
too.  Man  is,  I  sometimes  think,  the  natural  preserver 
of  sex.  Women  get  along  very  well  without  it,  or  with 
enough  of  it  to  decently  populate  the  earth.  But  men  are 
the  real  sentimentalists.  A  woman's  ruthless  when  she 
begins  to  houseclean  her  sentiments.  A  man  never  likes 
to  throw  anything  away,  you  know,  according  to  the 
tradition.  He  doesn't  like  to  throw  away  sex.  He's 
used  it  badly,  spotted  it  up  and  all  that — in  his  lucid 
moments  he'll  even  admit  it.  But  none  the  less  it's  very 
often  the  one  thing  which  can  excite  his  tenderness  and 
reverence  and  when  he  sees  us  invade  the  home,  as  he 
says,  it  isn't  that  he's  afraid  the  dishes  won't  get  washed. 
He  says  that,  but  what  he  is  afraid  of  is  that  we'll  find 
the  secret  places  of  his  sentiment  and  ravish  them.  I'm 
awfully  sorry  for  some  of  the  men.  They're  going 
through  a  lot  just  now.  They  seem  to  feel  so  left  out, 
under  all  their  loud  jocosity  and  foolish  talk — you  know," 
she  ended  a  little  weakly. 

"I  know.  I've  been  sorry  for  Gage  myself.  Terribly 
sorry  for  him.  But  I  don't  see  how  one  can  make  con- 
cessions. What  I'm  afraid  of  is  that  in  his  bitterness  he'll 
break  Helen  down.  And  she  might  give  in  but  she'd 
never  forgive  him  now." 

"You've    done    some    speedy    work,    haven't    you? 


The  Convention  181 

Smashed  up  homes  and  everything.  What  happened  to 
your  own  pet  Sinn  Feiner?" 

"He's  lecturing  somewhere  or  other." 

"Is  that  all  off?" 

"It  never  was  on." 

"You  couldn't  get  absorbed  in  his  enthusiasm  because 
you've  got  one  of  your  own,  haven't  you?" 

"I  have  yours." 

Mrs.  Thompson  patted  her  affectionately  on  the  arm. 
Her  contacts  were  all  warm  and  intimate.  With  men  and 
women  alike,  she  seemed  to  get  inside  their  minds  and 
look  out  on  the  world  as  they  saw  it. 

"You're  a  dear  girl,"  she  told  her,  "but  you  must 
remember  that  humanity  is  a  bigger  thing  even  than 
feminism,  Margaret.  Be  a  little  more  tender  towards  the 
poor  men.    After  all,  they  can't  all  be  transported." 

All  afternoon  the  crowds  swelled.  In  the  evening  the 
great  hotel  dining-rooms  were  filled  with  people  who 
represented  almost  everything — pow^r,  wealth,  notoriety, 
ambition.  Headquarters  were  established.  Newspaper 
men  idled  to  and  fro,  joking,  prophesying,  gossiping. 
Underneath  the  fatuousness  of  much  of  the  pretense  that 
this  was  a  great  popular  meeting,  most  of  the  people  knew 
that  the  rules  were  already  laid  down  and  things  would 
take  their  course — must  take  their  course.  And  yet  there 
was  a  certain  amount  of  fair  speculation  as  to  whether 
in  some  way  the  great  leaders  might  not  be  outwitted 
after  all — whether  some  new  element  might  not  show 
sudden  strength,  whether  the  unorganized,  half  formu- 
lated hopes  and  ideals  of  millions  of  ordinary  people  might 
this  time  put  themselves  across  and  lead  instead  of  follow. 
The  Convention,  like  the  world,  was  attuned  to  surprises, 
revolts,  inexplicable  overturnings. 

Helen  was  more  than  excited.  A  little  less  than  two 
days  ago  she  had  felt  that  she  could  not  go  on  with  this — 


182  Spellbinders 

that  the  personal  agony  had  to  be  fought  out  first.  To 
her  amazement  she  found  that  Margaret  had  been  right. 
Helen  had  always  agreed  with  her  that  women  were  really 
not  dependent  on  emotion  but  that  had  been  because 
Margaret's  contention  seemed  reasonable  and  to  take  the 
other  side  hardly  worthy.  An  inner  feeling  had  persisted 
that  after  all  Margaret  was  unmarried  and  didn't — 
couldn't  know  the  strength  of  the  emotional  pull.  But 
now  she  found  herself  breaking  through  personal 
emotional  wreckage  to  impersonal  interest — or  if  not 
impersonal  interest  at  least  interest  in  which  sex  played 
no  part.  She  had  at  first  kept  up  the  signs  of  control 
because  she  must.  Now  she  no  longer  needed  the  signs. 
She  thought  of  Gage  almost  dispassionately.  Now  and 
then  the  tragedy  of  the  ruined  feeling  between  them  shook 
her  violently.  But  she  could  see  their  situation  spread  out 
before  her.  She  could  see  it  in  relation  to  the  children, 
to  other  work.  She  could  see  where  things  must  be 
stopped  in  that  they  did  not  improve.  And  most  of  the 
time  she  hardly  thought  of  Gage  at  all.  She  was  respond- 
ing to  all  the  excitement  and  interest  and  admiration 
around  her.  She  felt  part  of  a  great  organization  about 
to  act  in  ways  which  would  affect  the  world.  The  great 
sensibility  of  her  woman's  imagination,  undulled  by  much 
experience  in  the  direction  of  things  beyond  her  contact, 
was  played  upon  by  a  vision  of  great  power  which  she 
might  help  direct. 

For  the  first  time  she  understood  what  Margaret  meant 
by  the  freedom  of  women  and  why  she  was  not  content 
with  the  formal  letting  down  of  the  gates.  She  under- 
stood what  some  of  the  others  meant  when  they  talked 
of  the  easy  contemporary  victories  as  obscuring  the  real 
things  which  women  needed. 

The  best  of  them  did  not  talk  the  lingo  of  the  "new 
day."     They  knew  that  any  day  was  not  new  long  enough 


The  Convention  183 

to  get  used  to  its  title.  They  talked  of  adjustment  of 
contemporary  circumstances  to  an  evolution  as  old  as 
that  of  civilization,  as  old  as  that  of  man — merged  with 
male  development  and  yet  distinct  from  it  again.  They 
avoided  catch  words  and  the  flattery  which  was  sprinkled 
so  thickly,  avoided  it  not  pedantically  but  with  humorous 
knowledge  of  its  purpose. 

They  dined  with  Mrs.  Thompson  and  three  other 
women  and  held  a  kind  of  informal  court  afterwards  in 
one  of  the  parlors  of  the  hotel.  Every  notable  man  who 
came  into  the  hotel  seemed  to  want  a  word  with  Mrs. 
Thompson.  She  had  a  way  with  them  that  they  all  liked, 
a  kind  of  keen  camaraderie,  especially  effective  in  a  woman 
who,  like  Mrs.  Thompson,  could  never  be  accused  of 
trying  out  any  arts  of  sex  attraction.  They  liked  her 
company  and  her  brisk  tongue  and  there  was  added 
interest  in  finding  such  company  in  a  woman.  Helen  met 
the  Senators — the  men  whose  names  the  party  conjured 
with  and  handled  them  as  she  handled  most  people — 
skillfully. 

It  was  a  little  after  nine  when  Helen  saw  Gage  at  the 
end  of  the  room.  She  had  been  talking  with  a  gray 
haired,  affable  Senator  who  was  telling  her  what  a  bene- 
ficient  influence  the  women  were  to  have  on  the  Conven- 
tion and  she  was  excited,  amused  and  sparkling.  She 
was  wearing  a  dinner  dress  of  black  lace  that  Gage  had 
always  liked  and  as  she  caught  his  eyes  on  her  that  was 
the  first  thought  which  flashed  through  her  mind.  It  was 
followed  by  a  quick  appraisal  of  Gage  himself.  He  was 
looking  a  little  untidy  and  showing  clearly  the  signs  of 
recent  strain  and  worry. 

He  did  not  make  his  way  to  her  at  once.  He  stopped 
to  talk  casually  to  some  men  whom  he  knew.  Helen 
thought  suddenly  that  Gage  was  not  a  big  man  politically. 
He    did   not   have   nearly   as   much   prestige   as   Mrs. 


184  Spellbinders 

Thompson  of  course,  not  nearly  as  much  strength  as  she 
herself  might  have — .  She  saw  Margaret  introducing 
him  to  Mrs.  Thompson.  His  manners  were  bad.  He 
had  none  of  the  easy  pleasant  way  with  which  the  other 
men  had  come  up  to  her.  He  must  be  making  an 
extremely  bad  impression.  It  humiliated  her  somewhat. 
They  were  still  too  close  for  her  not  to  feel  that. 

She  joined  the  group  where  were  Gage  and  Mrs. 
Thompson  and  Margaret. 

"Have  you  had  a  good  day,  Gage?  I  called  up  the 
house  and  the  children  are  fine.  Not  a  trace  of  their 
colds,  Esther  said." 

He  nodded  gravely.  Their  eyes  met,  denying  any 
intimacies  of  exchange,  coldly,  a  little  cruelly. 

"I  hear  your  wife  is  to  make  the  prize  seconding  speech 
to-morrow,  Mr.  Flandon,"  said  Harriet  Thompson, 
bending  towards  him. 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Gage. 

"Do  your  views  agree  ?"  asked  the  older  woman  lightly. 

"Very  seldom,"  answered  Gage.  He  had  not  made  it 
light.    It  was  like  the  flick  of  a  whip. 

Margaret  interposed. 

"Gage  doesn't  believe  in  women's  progress,  Harriet — 
don't  get  him  started,  please." 

"I  wish  he  would  get  started.  There  are  plenty  of 
times  when  I  think  we're  all  talking  balderdash  and  it 
would  be  a  relief  to  hear  some  one  give  testimony  against 
us.     What  is  the  matter  with  women,  Mr.  Flandon?" 

Gage's  tired,  half-haunted  eyes  looked  at  her  as  if  he 
suspected  mockery  but  he  found  none. 

"According  to  most  belief,  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  them.  They  are  supremely  successful.  They've  got 
what  they  wanted.  If  they  don't  like  the  taste  of  their 
little  mess  of  pottage  as  they  eat  it,  it  will  be  unfortunate." 

"You  don't  think  they  will  like  it?" 


The  Convention  185 

"I  may  be  mistaken.     It  may  suit  their  taste." 

"I'm  afraid  it  won't  but  it's  the  best  food  we're  able  to 
provide  so  far.     Perhaps  we've  overpaid  for  it." 

"You  have." 

He  stopped,  abruptly  conscious  of  being  drawn  into 
discussion  in  public.  Margaret  and  Helen  had  been 
listening  to  the  brief  dialogue,  and  he  stiffened  to  the  sense 
of  their  presence. 

"I  can't  stay,  Helen — I've  an  appointment.  Is  there 
anything  I  can  do?" 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  end  of  the  room,  impelled 
by  a  desire  to  preserve  what  she  could  of  appearances  but 
more  by  an  unexpected  pain  at  having  him  leave  her. 
She  did  not  want  him  to  stay — she  was  clear  about  that, 
but  she  hated  to  have  him  go  away  in  that  lonely  fashion. 
The  gentleness  that  welled  up  only  lasted  for  a  moment. 
He  was  ugly  still.  She  could  tell  by  the  set  of  his  lips. 
It  brought  back  her  terribly  painful  memories. 

"Good  night,  Gage." 

That  was  all.  Towards  morning  Gage  went  to  bed. 
He  had  been  drinking  other  people's  whisky  and  he 
was  ill  enough  to  suspect  it  had  not  been  good  stuff. 


He  did  not  go  to  the  great  Auditorium  until  the  next 
afternoon.  It  took  some  time  to  get  himself  into  shape. 
The  heat  had  begun,  heat  which  settled  thickly  on  the  city 
for  three  days  and  played  its  own  part  in  making  possible 
agreements  and  compromises.  By  noon  the  smart  look, 
the  brisk  look  had  gone  from  everything  and  everybody 
and  the  sticky  battle  with  the  weather  had  begun.  Gage 
had  met  some  men  from  his  own  part  of  the  country  and 
they  entered  the  great  hall  where  the  banners  hung  limp 
from  the  ceiling  and  the  delegates  were  already  coming 


186  Spellbinders 

back  to  their  places  after  the  noon  recess.  Gage  did  not 
look  for  his  wife  but  after  a  while  he  saw  her — as  usual 
looking  the  mistress  of  herself.  His  head  was  hot  and 
thick  and  he  hated  her  for  the  fine  mastery  of  her  health 
and  beauty.  He  wanted  to  see  her  in  tears — prostrate — 
and  because  he  knew  his  desire  was  ugly  he  slipped  down 
in  his  own  self-respect,  which  already  was  becoming  such 
a  frail  reed  to  cling  to. 

All  that  day  he  did  not  go  near  her.  He  watched  her 
furtively  sometimes  while  he  was  in  the  auditorium  but 
most  of  the  time  he  spent  with  other  men  in  hotel  rooms 
which  grew  hotter  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  electric  fans 
and  all  the  time  the  whisky  which  he  drank  made  his  brain 
hot  and  seething  with  misconceptions  and  desires  and 
hatreds. 

By  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  it  had  settled  down 
to  an  endurance  meeting. 

Watching  the  restless,  heated  crowd,  going  through  the 
same  old  formalities,  Gage  wondered  whether  Helen  was 
aware  now  what  kind  of  game  this  was  she  had  chosen 
to  sit  in — whether  the  farce  of  it  was  clear.  He  did  not 
wonder  clearly.  It  was  a  kind  of  vindictive  spite  which 
pricked  a  muddled  brain. 

He  had  not  intend  to  be  there  when  she  spoke  but  in 
the  end  he  stayed.  He  heard  the  round  commonplace 
phrases  of  the  man  who  was  nominating  the  candidate  she 
was  working  for — a  good  man,  as  Gage  admitted — better 
caliber  than  most,  but  without  a  ghost  of  a  show  for 
nomination.  He  listened  with  irritation  to  the  outburst 
of  applause.  Then  he  saw  his  wife  before  the  great 
crowd.     It  seemed  quite  unreal. 

He  had  not  guessed  her  voice  would  carry  like  that. 
He  had  not  known  she  would  show  up  like  that.  She 
came  like  a  breath  of  cool  air  into  that  heated  place.  In 
her  blue  linen  gown  and  white  feather  hat  she  looked  cool, 


The  Convention  187 

fresh,  immaculate.  When  she  spoke  they  listened  to  her 
and  for  a  few  minutes  Gage  caught  himself  listening 
eagerly.  She  was  talking  well.  No  nonsense.  It  was 
to  the  point.     Just  then  he  heard  a  man  behind  him. 

"Some  looker,  isn't  she?  That's  the  kind  of  dames 
we  ought  to  have  in  politics  all  right." 

Blind  rage  swept  over  Gage  again.  He  wanted  to  turn 
on  the  man  and  fight.  But  he  did  nothing  of  the  sort, 
being  held  by  a  thousand  inhibitions.  Instead  he  watched 
his  wife  and  as  she  talked  he  seemed  to  see  her  offering 
her  beauty  to  the  crowd,  seemed  to  see  in  every  man's 
face — as  they  watched  her — amusement,  desire,  lust. 

He  heard  the  burst  of  applause  when  she  finished, 
applause  with  real  enthusiasm  and  at  every  hand  clap  he 
felt  fury  rising.  Getting  up,  he  found  his  way  to  the 
door. 

If  Helen  had  expected  a  tribute  from  him,  piled  on  the 
many  she  received  that  night,  she  was  mistaken.  Men, 
women,  newspapers  all  congratulated  her  on  having  put 
some  real  fire  into  the  speeches.  Her  speech,  printed  and 
flashed  all  over  the  country  was  given  its  own  share  of 
praise.  It  was  clear,  forceful,  new  in  its  outlook.  The 
women  of  the  country  had  chosen  a  good  spokesman,  said 
the  papers.  But  from  Gage  there  was  only  a  note  at  the 
hotel,  saying  briefly  that  he  had  thought  it  best  to  return 
to  St.  Pierre — the  convention  was  the  usual  farce. 

Helen  twisted  his  note  in  her  hands. 

"So  he  couldn't  stay  away  from  Freda  Thorstad  even 
that  long,"  she  thought.     "Well,—" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MR.  SABLE  STARTS  SOMETHING 

WHAT  Mr.  Sable  had  counted  on  was  that  Gage,  once 
away  for  the  Convention,  with  his  wife  travelling 
with  him,  would  stay  away  for  a  week  or  so.  In  any  case, 
he  had  taken  matters  rather  summarily  into  his  own  hands 
in  the  case  of  Freda  Thorstad.  The  presence  of  the  girl 
in  the  office  was  to  him  like  an  open  scandal.  He  knew 
that  she  had  to  get  out  of  the  office  and  the  time  to  get 
her  out  was  while  Gage  was  away.  Of  course  Flandon 
might  raise  trouble  when  he  came  back  but  there  would 
be  no  scene  with  the  girl  and  he  could  put  it  flatly  and 
finally  that  amours  had  to  be  conducted  outside  of  the 
office  if  at  all.  He  was  extremely  correct  and  secure  in 
his  own  position  and  he  felt  he  was  most  delicate. 

So  he  was  at  the  office  a  little  earlier  than  usual  the 
morning  after  Gage  left  for  the  Convention.  Freda  was 
at  her  desk  sorting  the  first  batch  of  mail.  She  looked 
very  neat  and  capable,  in  her  white  blouse  open  a  little 
at  the  throat,  her  thick  golden  red  hair  pulled  back 
smoothly  from  her  forehead,  and  her  head  industriously 
bent  over  her  letters. 

"Will  you  come  in  my  office  for  a  moment,  Miss 
Thorstad?" 

Freda  followed  him  obediently.  He  closed  the  door 
and,  taking  his  arm  chair,  left  her  standing  a  little 
dubiously  before  him. 

"Miss  Thorstad,,,  he  said,  "I  think— er— that  it  will  be 
best  for  you  to  sever  your  connection  with  this  office.,, 

188 


Mr.  Sable  Starts  Something       189 

His  tone,  wholly  disapproving,  weighted  with  meaning, 
told  his  reasons  with  almost  comic  flatness. 

Freda's  brow  contracted  and  she  looked  sharply  at  him. 
Then  she  laughed.  A  brazen  laugh,  he  would  have  said. 
Truly  a  laugh  with  no  more  fear  or  care  or  apprehension 
in  it  than  the  laugh  of  any  child  who  comes  upon  some- 
thing ridiculous. 

Mr.  Sable  frowned.  She  was  a  hussy,  he  thought. 
Might  try  to  bulldoze  him  a  little — he  became  increasingly 
stern. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  go  into  our  reasons  for  this  but  I 
think  it  will  be  best  for  you  to  simply  leave  at  once.  You 
may  find  the  work  too  heavy  for  you.  I  am  sure  you 
understand  that  no  office  of  this  kind  could  take  the 
situation  differently.' ' 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  for  me  to  wait  until  Mr. 
Flandon's  return?"  she  asked. 

He  had  feared  that. 

"Surely  you  understand  that  your  presence  here  is 
embarrassing  to  Mr.  Flandon,"  he  said  sharply. 

If  she  had  guessed  what  he  suspected  she  might  have 
contended.  But  all  that  he  said  struck  her  as  true.  She 
evidently  was  being  gossiped  about  and  if  it  did  make  it 
embarrassing  for  Mr.  Flandon —  Perhaps  that  was  why 
he  had  been  so  over  courteous,  to  conceal  a  deep  embar- 
rassment. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Sable," — she  straightened  her 
shoulders  a  little — "I  shall  not  go  on  with  my  work  here." 

"Exactly."  With  victory  so  easily  accomplished,  Mr. 
Sable  became  different,  adept  at  smoothing  things  over. 
"Of  course  when  a  young  lady  cannot  typewrite,  an  office 
like  this  has  hardly  the  right  kind  of  work — " 

"I  know  that.     I  told  Mr.  Flandon  that  at  the  start." 

"Mr.  Flandon  being  absent,  I  will  give  you  a  check  for 
this  week's  work." 


190  Spellbinders 

"I've  done  only  one  day's  work,  Mr.  Sable.  It  is  only" 
— she  calculated — "two  and  a  half  dollars." 

She  took  his  check  for  that — he  did  not  dare  press  the 
point — and  left  his  office.  Mr.  Sable  smoothed  his  little 
white  mustache,  straightened  his  papers  with  the  air  of 
having*  done  a  good  day's  work  already,  and  pressed  the 
buzzer  for  his  own  secretary. 

It  was  only  half  past  nine  o'clock.  Freda  got  her  hat 
and  coat  from  the  tiny  dressing-room.  Her  desk  was  in 
order  and  there  was  no  use  in  fussing  over  it.  She 
wanted  to  get  out  into  the  clean  air.  The  pompous  little 
lawyer's  insinuations  while  they  did  not  strike  deep 
enough  to  insult  her,  made  her  feel  soiled  and  dirty. 

Cele  followed  her  into  the  dressing-room. 

"Where  you  going?" 

"Going  out  to  look  for  a  job." 

"He  let  you  out?" 

"That's  the  substance  of  his  message." 

"Well— I  call  that—"  Cele  stopped,  a  veil  of  thought 
coming  over  her  eyes.  "Look  here,"  she  went  on,  "if 
there's  anything  I  can  do — "  She  stressed  the  last  word 
violently,  as  if  the  need  for  action  pressed  upon  her. 

"Not  a  thing." 

"You  aren't  going  back  to — what-you-may-call-it  ? 
The  place  you  came  from?" 

"Mohawk?  No — mother's  coming  here  in  a  day  or 
two.     I'll  wait,  and  look  for  a  job." 

"A  job,"  said  Cele,  reflectively,  "don't  worry  too  much, 
will  you?  Say — I'll  be  around  to  see  you  to-night.  I 
think  it's  rotten." 

Freda  went  out,  wondering  if  the  slanderous  tongues 
had  found  even  Cele's  ear. 

But  she  did  not  linger  on  thoughts  of  her  dismissal. 
She  was  sorry  to  leave  Mr.  Flandon  so,  but  after  all  he 


Mr.  Sable  Starts  Something       191 

knew  and  understood  and  the  whole  business  was  so  tem- 
porary anyway.  Gregory  should  be  back  any  day  now — 
and  they  would  go  away  and  never  think  of  such  ugliness 
any  more.  It  was  like  her  that  no  thought  of  personal 
justification,  of  setting  people  straight  on  the  gossip,  ever 
entered  her  head.  She  wanted  to  shake  them  off — that 
was  all.  She  wanted  to  get  away  into  light  and  clearness 
and  cleanness  with  Gregory.  And  it  seemed  to  her  that 
merely  being  with  Gregory  would  make  an  atmosphere 
like  that. 

She  had  received  no  letter  from  him  in  five  or  six  days 
now  and  she  missed  one  sadly.  She  needed  that  written 
touch  of  vigor  and  sweetness  which  set  her  days  aflame 
with  happiness.  Especially  now,  with  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  probably  to  bear  his  child.  The  lack  of  an 
address  so  she  might  send  him  that  delightful  information 
was  distressing.  She  could  have  reached  him  through 
his  lecture  bureau  but  she  had  a  dread  of  the  letter  going 
astray  if  it  were  not  sent  directly  to  him.  Not  a  word  or 
thought  of  resentment  did  she  allow  to  penetrate  her 
love.  She  kept  herself  free  from  that.  It  was  harder 
to  keep  fear  away. 

She  was  strolling  along,  passing  through  the  shopping 
jdistrict,  now  and  then  stopping  to  look  idly  at  something 
in  the  window  when  she  heard  herself  greeted.  Looking 
up  she  saw  Ted  Smillie.  He  was  quietly  affable  and  there 
seemed  no  escape  from  speaking  to  him. 

"How  are  you,  Freda  ?"  he  asked  calmly. 

She  resented  his  use  of  her  name  though  he  had  come 
to  using  it  before  their  disastrous  evening. 

"Quite  well,"  she  said,  and  looked  at  him  evenly, 
waiting  for  him  to  pass  her. 

He  did  not  pass.  He  lingered,  showing  in  his  face 
the  return  of  that  avid  attraction  which  he  had  felt  so 


192  Spellbinders 

strongly  before.  She  was  thinner  than  she  had  been  when 
he  had  seen  her  last  and  the  shadows  under  her  eyes  made 
her  face  more  delicate — more  interesting ! 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  again  and  luck's  come  my  way. 
You  know  that  I  did  call  on  you  the  next  day  at  the 
Brownleys'  and  found  you'd  gone.  I'm  afraid  I  acted 
like  an  awful  fool  that  night.     Didn't  I?" 

"Worse  than  that." 

"But  it  truly  wasn't  my  fault.  I  had  been  drinking. 
I  know  I  can't  stand  the  stuff.  And  you  made  me  quite 
lose  my  head." 

She  reflected  that  of  course  it  hadn't  been  his  fault  as 
much  as  Barbara's.  And  not  knowing  or  dreaming  that 
he  was  the  agency  which  had  violated  the  privacy  of  those 
two  days  at  the  Roadside  Inn,  she  did  not  persist  in  great 
resentment.  She  disliked  him  of  course  but  she  was  very 
idle  and  ready  for  distraction. 

He  went  on  talking,  eagerly. 

"It's  been  on  my  mind  ever  since.  I  hated  to  let  you 
think  I  was  like  that.  Look  here,  Freda,  I've  got  a  free 
afternoon.  Come  in  and  have  a  cool  drink  somewhere 
with  me — won't  you?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Freda. 

"Please." 

"I  might  hurt  your  reputation,"  she  said,  with  a  scorn- 
ful little  laugh.  "I  understand  I'm  causing  a  lot  of  talk 
among  your  frienas." 

"They  always  talk  about  every  one — especially  if  a  girl 
has  the  courage  not  to  be  conventional — " 

She  did  not  trust  him  in  the  least.  Nor  did  she  like 
him.  It  was  sheer  ennui  which  made  her  consent.  She 
needed  company. 

They  went  to  the  tea  room  of  a  hotel,  a  cool  place, 
furnished  with  abundant  white  willow  and  great  palms. 
Freda  had  not  been  in  such  a  place  before  and  she,  as  ever, 


Mr.  Sable  Starts  Something       193 

was  esthetically  responsive  to  the  oasis  of  comfort  and 
coolness  it  made  in  the  sweltering  city.  Ted  ordered  for 
her — a  tall  glass  of  cool  Russian  tea  with  mint  leaves  and 
thin  lettuce  edged  sandwiches.  His  solicitude  for  her 
comfort  dulled  the  edge  of  whatever  resentment  she  had 
towards  him — she  had  never  bothered  to  preserve  much. 

"And  what  are  you  doing?  Did  I  hear  you  were  work- 
ing— like  all  modern  women?" 

"Working  I  was — like  all  women  who  need  the 
money,"  she  answered,  "but  I'm  not  working  now." 

"You're  not  going  back  to  Mohawk?" 

She  remembered  part  of  his  proposition  that  she  need 
not  go  back  to  Mohawk,  made  some  weeks  ago,  glancing 
at  him  guardedly,  thinking  with  a  certain  amount  of 
interest  that  this  was  the  very  young  man  who  had  made 
suggestions  which  should  have  barred  him  permanently 
from  her  presence.  Here  she  was,  taking  his  iced  tea. 
Things  were  queer.  She  didn't  even  feel  particularly 
angry  at  him.  There  wasn't  any  use  pretending  false 
rigors. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  as  she  had  said  before. 

"I'm  glad  you  left  the  Brownleys'  anyhow.  Are  you 
living  with  other  friends?" 

"No — I've  a  room  by  myself." 

Obviously  he  liked  that  and  the  visible  signs  of  his 
liking  amused  her. 

"Can  I  come  to  see  you  once  in  a  while?" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed.  I  shouldn't  in  the  least  like  you  as  a 
caller." 

He  was  undisturbed. 

"I'll  have  to  make  you  change  your  mind  somehow." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly,  delicately,  in 
negation. 

"Do  you  know  how  much  I've  thought  about  you  since 
that  night?"  he  asked,  bending  a  little  closer  to  her. 


194  Spellbinders 

"How  much?" 

"All  the  time." 

She  pushed  her  glass  away  from  her. 

"Don't  be  silly.  I'm  not  a  half-wit,  Ted.  I  think  you 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  You  know  quite  well 
you're  engaged  to  Barbara  Brownley.  Her  mother  told 
Miss  Duffield  that." 

His  face  darkened. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  thought  you  were  above  a  lot  of 
silly  conventions." 

She  smiled  serenely.     "I  am." 

"Then — just  because  a  man  is  engaged  to  a  woman  is 
no  reason  why  he  should  never  speak  to  any  one  else." 

"No — that  would  put  a  pretty  high  penalty  on  such 
things,  wouldn't  it?" 

"People  are  getting  over  their  old  fashioned  notions 
about  such  things.  Men  and  women  aren't  simpletons  as 
they  used  to  be,  you  know.  We're  regarding  these  things 
in  a  modern  way.     More  like  the  French,"  he  said  largely. 

"The  French — oh,  yes,"  said  Freda,  gravely,  "you 
mean  having  wives  and  mistresses  too.  I've  often  won- 
dered if  the  French  couldn't  sue  us  for  libel  for  the  things 
provincial  Americans  think  about  them." 

He  flushed.     "Are  you  making  fun  of  me?" 

"Gracious,  no."  But  he  knew  from  her  laugh  that 
she  was.     "Why  should  I  make  fun  of  you  ?" 

She  was  enjoying  herself.  She  felt  so  secure,  so 
strong.  It  was  fun  to  bait  this  temperish  young  man, 
make  him  scuttle  about  for  phrases  which  had  no  effect 
on  her  at  all. 

"Anyway  you  know  how  I  feel."  He  pushed  aside  the 
glasses  and  plates  between  them  and  bent  himself  over 
the  tiny  table  towards  her.  She  sat  back  in  her  chair 
promptly. 


Mr.  Sable  Starts  Something       195 

"You  know  how  I  feel,"  he  persisted,  "I  never  cared  for 
a  girl  as  I've  cared  for  you." 

"Then,"  said  Freda,  with  an  air  of  great  simplicity, 
"why  not  ask  me  to  marry  you  ?" 

He  threw  out  his  hands  in  a  theatrical  gesture  of 
despondency. 

"I'm  tied  hand  and  foot.  This  marriage  of  mine  has 
been  cooked  up  by  our  families.  It's  all  arranged  for 
us." 

"I  know,"  said  Freda  wisely,  "as  in  France." 

He  glanced  sharply  at  her. 

"But,"  said  Freda,  "the  modern  way  is  not  to  let  your 
parents  put  that  sort  of  thing  over.  Truly.  One  simply 
says,  'Mother — I  will  wed  the  girl  of  my  choice.'  " 

"You  are  making  fun  of  me." 

"Well — who  wouldn't?"  Freda  collapsed  into  a  laugh. 
"Here  I  sit,  listening  to  you  make  the  funniest  clandestine 
love  in  the  world.  You  feel  you've  got  to  do  it — to 
uphold  your  reputation  as  a — Frenchman!  And  if  you 
slipped  into  a  serious  situation  you'd  be  aghast.  You 
don't  care  a  thing  about  me  and  you  know  it." 

"Ah,  don't  I?"     He  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  he  did. 

"You  probably  care  a  little  about  corrupting  me.  Now 
look  here,  Ted,  please  stop  talking  such  nonsense.  You 
can't  shock  me  and  it's  pretty  hard  to  insult  me — I  am  a 
little  ashamed  of  not  being  more  insulted — but  you 
probably  could  make  me  very  angry  by  persisting  in 
trying  to  involve  me  in  petty  vice.  In  the  first  place  I 
don't  like  it.  In  the  second  place,  if  I  ever  went  In  for 
vice,  it  would  be  on  a  larger  scale  than  you  could  dream 
of.  I  haven't  the  slightest  intention  of — being  French! 
You'd  better  go  along  and  make  love  to  Bob  Brownley. 
She'll  bring  some  excitement  into  your  life,  I  think.  The 
reason  I'm  not  more  angry  with  you  is  that  you  were, 


196  Spellbinders 

indirectly,  the  cause  of  the  greatest  bit  of  luck  that  ever 
happened  to  me." 

"What?" 

"I  wouldn't  dream  of  telling  you.  But  I'm  awfully 
obliged  for  the  tea — truly.     It  set  me  up.     Shall  we  go?" 

He  was  not  so  easy  to  repulse.  He  got  up  and  pulled 
his  chair  around  to  her  side  of  the  table. 

"Freda,"  he  tried  to  take  her  hand,  "if  I  gave  up  Bob 
would  you  let  me  see  you  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  if  you  gave  up  the  world." 

She  rose  a  little  impatiently,  feeling  that  this  was 
going  too  far,  and  started  for  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room. 

"At  least  you'll  tell  me  where  you  live  ?"  he  pressed  her. 
"Let  me  go  home  with  you  now." 

"Don't  you  have  to  work  in  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon ?" 

"Nobody's  working  much.     It's  too  hot." 

"Then  go  play  with  Barbara.     I've  other  things  to  do." 

Possibly  it  was  the  heat  and  the  sense  of  effort  which 
got  nowhere  that  made  Ted's  face  intense  and  angry. 
He  saw  her  about  to  slip  away  again. 

"You  can't  go  like  this,  Freda,  I've  only  just  found 
you." 

"You'd  better  let  me,"  answered  Freda,  "because  I  see 
Maud  Dubonnet  looking  at  you  and  she  knows  you  and 
obviously  isn't  intending  to  speak  to  me  though  I  lunched 
at  her  house,  so  you  see  it  will  be  hot  with  you  when 
Barbara  hears  this." 

Against  his  will  Ted  looked  up  and  saw  Maud  truly, 
with  two  other  girls  and  three  young  men  coming  into 
the  room.  They  had  to  pass  Ted  and  Freda  as  they  stood 
there,  discussing.  Maud  Dubonnet  was  the  only  one  of 
the  group  whom  Freda  knew.  The  others  all  evidently 
knew  Ted  and  glanced  at  him  with  some  interest.     Maud 


Mr.  Sable  Starts  Something       197 

did  not  look  at  Freda.  She  held  her  head  stiffly  as  she 
passed,  then  said  something  to  the  others  which  made 
them  turn  with  an  attempt  at  casualness  to  look  at  the 
man  and  girl.  Ted  delayed  no  longer.  He  followed 
Freda  out. 

"You  see  it  doesn't  pay  to  do  things  Barbara  won't 
like.  This  will  get  back  to  her  before  to-morrow  and  she 
won't  be  pleasant." 

Ted's  mouth  set  in  an  rather  ugly  line. 

"I'll  manage  Bob  all  right."  He  looked  at  Freda. 
Her  face  under  the  plain  white  hat  she  wore  was  mocking, 
insubordinate,  fascinating.  "But  I  want  to  see  you  again. 
To-night?" 

"Nonsense.  Good-by,  Ted.  Be  good  and  make  your 
peace  with  Bob." 

She  turned  and  went  in  the  opposite  direction  from  the 
one  in  which  they  had  started,  going  into  the  first  big 
department  store  and  retiring  to  the  ladies'  waiting-room 
where  she  wrote  a  letter  to  her  father,  and  mailed  it. 
Then,  having  made  sure  she  was  rid  of  Ted  she  went 
home.  The  afternoon  dragged  along.  She  read  and 
thought  and  on  an  impulse  went  out  again  to  go  to  the 
railway  station  and  get  some  time  tables.  She  wanted 
to  see  just  how  far  Gregory  had  been  away  from  her 
when  he  last  wrote. 

Each  time  the  postman  approached  the  house  there  was 
a  leap  of  her  heart.  Four  times  a  day  he  came  and  each 
time  he  brought  fresh  hope.  She  would  play  tricks  on 
herself  as  she  went  down  to  look  in  the  mail  box  she 
shared  with  the  people  who  rented  the  apartment  in  which 
she  stayed.  Each  time  she  put  her  hand  in  the  box  she 
hesitated  before  she  looked,  then  looked  quickly  as  if  to 
catch  fate  before  it  tricked  her.  But  it  would  be  an 
advertisement  of  a  corset  firm  for  Mrs.  Miller,  an  envelope 
with  unmistakable  savor  of  a  bill  about  it,  a  postcard,  a 


198  Spellbinders 

white  Louisine  envelope  with  a  woman's  handwriting  on 
it.     How  she  hated  all  the  flatness  of  the  Miller  mail. 

Each  envelope  she  took  in  her  hands  seemed  to  be 
mischievously  metamorphosed  into  one  of  these  stupid 
envelopes  which  represented  such  dull  contact  with  the 
outside  world.  Nothing  to  do  but  to  go  upstairs  and  read 
all  over  again  the  old  messages  of  love  from  him — to  wear 
her  wedding  ring  in  the  privacy  of  her  room — to  make 
endless  computations  on  the  presumable  date  of  her  child's 
birth — to  read  with  unfailing  zest  and  yet  slight  nausea 
the  rather  mawkish  pages  of  "What  Every  Mother 
Should  Know"  which  she  had  shamefacedly  but  defiantly 
bought  at  a  book  shop,  feeling  the  necessity  for  some 
practical  knowledge  of  marriage. 

The  next  day,  breaking  through  her  apprehension  and 
her  waiting,  cutting  across  her  vague  fears,  came  the 
letter.  It  lay  between  an  announcement  of  the  opening 
of  a  new  hair  dressing  parlor  and  Mr.  Miller's  water  and 
light  bill.  How  could  she  hope  that  the  other  white 
envelope  would  be  anything  more  interesting  ?  Then  she 
turned  it  over  and  the  address  stared  at  her  blackly.  It 
was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Gregory  Macmillan,  in  an 
unfamiliar  hand,  postmarked  at  the  town  from  which 
Gregory  had  last  written.  Gregory  always  addressed  her 
letters  to  Freda  Thorstad  to  avoid  any  explanations  to  the 
Millers.  A  quick  faint  fear  came  over  her.  She  almost 
crushed  the  letter  as  she  flew  up  the  stairs  and  with  her 
back  against  her  door  faced  the  envelope  again. 

Then  steeling  her  mind  and  her  heart,  presenting  only 
outer  senses  to  what  blow  it  might  contain,  she  opened  it. 
The  written  words  made  their  sense  clear,  like  some 
amazingly  vital  story  that  thrilled  every  nerve. 


Mr.  Sable  Starts  Something       199 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Macmillan  : 

I  obtained  your  address  from  your  husband  and  I  am  writing 
you  to  tell  you  that  he  is  extremely  ill.  We  have  done  our 
best  for  him  and  he  has  a  nurse  with  him  constantly  but  I  feel 
that  you  should  come  to  him  if  it  is  at  all  possible.  I  do  not 
know  what  responsibilities  of  family  may  hold  you  but  I  think 
it  my  duty  to  inform  you  that  your  husband  is  very  sick.  He 
lectured  here  on  the  fourteenth  and  the  next  morning  the  pro- 
prietor of  this  hotel  called  me  to  attend  him.  I  found  him  in 
the  first  stages  of  typhoid  and  had  him  removed  to  a  hospital 
here  which  is  comfortable  and  where  we  have  given  him  every 
attention.  At  a  time  like  this  his  family  should  be  with  him. 
I  regret  that  I  must  be  the  agent  of  such  distressing  news. 
Faithfully  yours, 

L.  D.  Merritt,  M.D." 

She  read  it  through  twice  carefully.  The  thing  struck 
her  as  quite  unreal,  although  she  had  speculated  on  the 
possibility  of  his  illness. 

Then  her  mind,  working  reasonably,  went  on.  She 
thought  of  trains  and  money.  She  had  fifty — no  forty- 
nine  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents.  It  wasn't  enough, 
she  knew. 

She  had  the  time  tables  which  she  had  obtained  the  day 
before.  She  studied  them,  her  body  held  tautly,  her  face 
calm,  showing  a  control  which  had  come  unconsciously. 
She  could  leave  at  three  fifteen  that  afternoon.  She'd 
have  to  change  trains  at  midnight.  She'd  get  there  at 
noon  next  day.  There  was  money.  She  must  have 
money.  No  one  to  get  it  from  unless  she  wired  her 
father — better  not — Miss  Duffield  away — Mr.  Flandon 
away — Cele  had  none.  She  thought  even  of  Ted  Smillie. 
Better  not — she'd  pawn  something.  That  was  what 
people  did  when  they  needed  money. 

Like  most  girls  she  had  a  small  collection  of  semi- 
precious jewelry — nothing  of  great  value.     She  opened 


200  Spellbinders 

the  little  mock-ivory  box  on  her  dressing  table  and  con- 
sidered the  contents  carefully.  Then  she  closed  it,  put  on 
her  hat  and  stuck  the  box  in  her  pocket. 

Pawning  was  unlike  any  experience  she  had  ever  had 
and  not  as  exciting  as  books  had  led  her  to  believe.  She 
felt  no  shame — only  a  vague  hostility  to  the  pawnbroker. 
She  hated  his  having  so  obviously  the  best  of  the  transac- 
tion. He  was  scornful  in  her  array  of  articles  to  sell — 
the  gold  bracelet  that  had  cost  her  father  thirty-five 
dollars — the  little  one  carat  diamond  ring  that  had  been 
her  mother's — the  opal  ring — the  seal  ring — the  little 
silver  locket. 

In  the  end  he  gave  her  thirty-three  dollars,  and  with  the 
money  in  her  hands  she  immediately  got  his  point  of  view. 
She  had  exchanged  a  lot  of  things  which  meant  little  to 
her  for  the  boundless  power  of  thirty-three  dollars  which 
added  to  forty-nine  made  eighty-two. 

She  bought  a  ticket  to  Fairmount,  Montana.  It  cost 
her  twenty-eight  dollars  and  sixty-four  cents.  She  put 
it  in  her  purse  and  went  home,  a  splendid  sense  of  action 
stirring  her. 

It  took  her  a  very  short  time  to  pack  her  bag.  There 
remained  two  hours  before  the  train.  She  spent  it  sitting 
in  her  room  and  letting  the  knowledge  of  what  she  was 
doing  penetrate  her  mind.  It  occurred  to  her  that  she 
should  let  some  one  know  where  she  was  going  but  in  the 
face  of  Gregory's  illness  it  seemed  even  less  possible  to 
confide  the  news  of  her  marriage.  That  was  to  have 
been  a  glorious  revelation  to  a  few  people.  She  could  not 
turn  it  into  tragedy,  so  she  decided  to  tell  no  one. 

To  her  father  she  wrote  a  letter. 

Yet  even  to  him  she  could  not  tell  the  facts.  It  seemed 
now  when  circumstances  seemed  to  imperil  her  secret  that 
she  clutched  it  even  more  tightly  to  herself.  She  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  comment  breaking  in  like  a 


Mr.  Sable  Starts  Something       201 

destructive  barrage  on  the  secret  glory  and  beauty  she 
cherished.  In  her  absorption  she  did  not  think  much  of 
consequences  or  possible  worry  for  any  one.  Only  as 
she  told  Mrs.  Miller  that  she  wanted  to  pay  up  for  her 
week  and  that  she  had  been  called  out  of  town,  did  it 
occur  to  her  from  a  comment  of  Mrs.  Miller's,  that  her 
mother  was  coming  in  a  day  or  two.  The  complication 
puzzled  her — then  she  overrode  it  boldly.  It  was  one  of 
the  things  that  had  to  be.  So  she  wrote  a  note  for  her 
mother  and  entrusted  it  to  Mrs.  Miller.  It  was  only  a 
few  lines  to  tell  her  that  she  had  left  the  city — "I'm  sorry 
that  I  can't  be  more  definite  about  my  plans.  There's 
nothing  to  worry  you,  mother.  It's  quite  all  right  and 
I'm  not  doing  anything  I  shouldn't.  So  please  don't 
worry  about  me.  Only  trust  me,  won't  you?  I  know 
you  will."  She  sent  her  love  and  for  all  her  assurances 
on  paper  that  she  knew  her  mother  would  trust  her  she 
sealed  it  with  a  dubious  look. 

In  the  letter  to  her  father  she  was,  if  not  more  inform- 
ative, at  least  more  expansive. 

It  was  incoherent,  reassuring,  happy,  sad — the  kind  of 
letter  that  carries  with  it  great  fear  to  the  one  who  reads 
it  and  who  sees  how  delicate  the  balance  is  on  which  the 
future  is  being  weighed. 

Freda  mailed  the  note  to  her  father,  left  the  one  for 
her  mother  with  Mrs.  Miller  and  went  to  the  station. 
Almost  before  she  knew  it  the  long  train,  with  a  jerk  of 
its  loose  hung  body  had  gathered  itself  together  and  moved 
out  of  the  yards  through  the  scattering,  blackened  rail- 
road district.  She  watched  the  little  houses  and  let  her 
mind  sink  into  a  blur  of  remembrance  and  anticipation. 
She  was  going  to  Gregory.  No  more  waiting  for  letters, 
no  more  dreams.  Whatever  it  was  that  was  to  come,  it 
was  reality — something  to  feel  and  to  do — not  to  wait 
for. 


202  Spellbinders 

She  slipped  her  wedding  ring  on  her  finger  and  dis- 
played her  hand  a  little  absurdly  on  the  edge  of  the  window 
casing.  Marvelous  symbol — that  ring,  she  thought. 
Too  bad  that  people  had  come  to  regard  it  so  disdainfully. 
How  ill  it  must  have  been  treated  to  have  sunk  into  such 
disrepute.  Across  the  aisle  of  the  day  coach  she  saw  a 
like  ring  on  the  hand  of  a  woman.  It  was  a  fleshy  hand 
and  the  coarse  pink  skin  pushed  itself  up  on  either  side  of 
the  encircling  band  but  Freda  felt  kinship  and  friendliness. 
With  this  unknown  woman,  with  the  unintelligent  face 
she  almost  felt  it  possible  to  converse  intimately — as  if 
she  might  cross  to  her  and  say,  "I  am  Mrs.  Gregory  Mac- 
millan.    Are  you  going  far  ?" 

When  the  shadows  fell  thick  across  the  prairie  and  a 
white-coated  waiter,  a  shade  more  important  in  his 
manner  that  he  had  been  in  passing  through  the  Pull- 
mans, had  intrigued  a  fair  number  of  the  day-coach 
passengers  into  the  diner,  Freda  rose  a  little  stiffly.  Her 
chin  had  red  marks  on  it  where  she  had  cupped  it  in  her 
hand  for  so  long  and  there  were  streaks  of  coal  dust 
under  her  eyes.  She  made  a  perfunctory  and  inadequate 
attempt  to  look  presentable  and  faced  a  new  adventure. 
She  had  never  eaten  on  a  train  in  her  life. 

The  warm  bustle  and  luxury  of  the  place  stirred  her 
senses  and  brought  her  out  of  her  lonely  rhapsody  into  an 
appreciation  of  what  went  on  around  her.  The  adventure 
spirit  came  to  the  surface.  Freda  Thorstad — sitting  at 
a  tidy  table  in  a  dining-car,  on  the  way  to  her  husband. 
There  was  no  disloyalty  to  Gregory's  illness  that  she 
could  not  resist  the  enchantment  of  shining  dishes  which 
looked  like  silver  and  warm  and  savory  smells  and 
smiling,  interesting  travelers,  with  above  and  around  it 
all  the  clatter  and  rush  of  the  train,  moving  on  to  a 
hundred  destinations,  a  hundred  tragedies  and  comedies 


Mr.  Sable  Starts  Something       203 

and  romances.  Her  thoughts  at  least  admitted  no  state- 
ness as  a  possibility. 

The  meal  stood  out  in  her  memory.  She  never  forgot 
it.  Tentatively  she  ordered,  tea,  biscuits  and  lamb  chops. 
When  the  lamb  chops  came  they  lay  on  a  platter  with 
little  sprigs  of  parsley  offering  them  up  and  made  her 
very  hungry.  They  looked  delightful  but  inadequate. 
She  ate  hungrily,  for  these  last  few  days  she  had  had  little 
food. 

Four — five — dragging  hours.  She  bought  a  magazine 
with  a  flaring  girl  on  its  cover  and  read  avidly,  her  mind 
sinking  into  its  soporific  fiction  with  weariness,  getting 
respite  from  her  own  sharp  and  vivid  thoughts. 

The  conductor  came  to  tell  her  that  this  was  her  sta- 
tion. He  lifted  her  heavy  bag  for  her  and  carried  it  to 
the  foot  of  the  steps  of  the  coach. 

Then  came  the  excitement  of  the  swoop  and  pause  of 
the  Flyer.  Freda  was  bundled  aboard,  hat  awry, 
nervously  watching  for  her  bag,  taken  from  her  hands 
by  some  one,  porter  or  conductor.  The  curtains  swung 
from  all  the  berths.  The  porter's  voice  was  low  and  lazy. 
He  showed  her  to  lower  six — a  little  cubby  hole  with  cur- 
tains drawn  aside,  revealing  the  delightful  neatness  of  the 
berth.  Freda  knew  even  less  of  sleeping  on  trains  than 
she  did  of  eating  there.  Awkwardly  she  managed  to 
undress  and  crept  in  between  the  thick  white  sheets.  In 
the  darkness  she  lay  awake,  wondering.  Wondering  at 
the  rush  and  sound  and  the  mysteries  shrouded  behind 
green  swinging  curtains.  When  the  train  shrieked  a 
signal  or  stopped  lurchingly  at  some  station  she  pushed 
up  the  curtain  beside  her  and,  propped  on  her  pillows, 
lay  looking  into  the  night  tasting  the  full  delight  of 
inexperience.  At  last  she  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  of 
Gregory.     It  was  a  frightening  dream.    He  did  not  know 


204  Spellbinders 

who  she  was,  did  not  remember  her.  Towards  dawn  she 
pushed  her  way  out  of  it  and  woke  up  to  see  the  rain 
falling  lightly  over  the  even  country  and  to  realize  that 
she  was  begrimed  with  the  coal  dust  and  sticky  with 
heat. 

At  noon  she  reached  Fairmount  and  stood  in  the  station 
looking  about  her  for  information.  The  excitement  of 
the  last  lap  and  approaching  climax  of  her  journey  over- 
came her  fatigue  and  her  eyes  were  brilliant.  She  decided 
to  take  a  taxi  to  the  hospital  and  chose  at  random  one 
from  a  row  of  disheveled  looking  "For  Hire"  machines 
waiting  for  the  daily  debouch  of  passengers  from  the 
Flyer.  She  climbed  in  with  her  bag  and  closed  the  shaky 
door,  and  the  driver  started  his  motor.  Freda's  heart 
was  racing.  The  cab  could  not  go  fast  enough — nor 
slow  enough.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  could  not  bear 
what  might  be  waiting  of  joy  or  sorrow,  as  if  emotion 
was  welling  up  so  strong  that  it  would  burst  its  bounds 
and  overcome  her.  Through  the  dusty  cab  windows  she 
saw  Fairmount — ill  developed  wooden  houses  with 
unhealthy  looking  trees  giving  little  shade — a  business 
district  of  twelve  or  fifteen  squares  with  all  the  machinery 
of  business  being  conducted  as  it  was  at  this  hour  in 
hundreds  of  other  First  National  Banks  and  Gilt  Edge 
Stores  and  Greek  Restaurants  and  brick  office  buildings. 
The  cab  whisked  through  it  rapidly  and  came  to  a  section 
of  broader  streets  where  more  impressive  looking  houses 
of  brick  or  stone  appeared  at  leisurely  intervals.  A  little 
park  with  a  dusty  looking  playground  adjoining  it.  A 
row  of  apartments  and  there  on  the  corner  where  a 
"Silent  Zone"  sign,  awry  and  disregarded  by  a  group  of 
boys  playing  in  the  street  made  a  vain  appeal,  was  St. 
Agatha's  Hospital. 

Inside  the  little  entry  was  an  office  with  three  or  four 


Mr.  Sable  Starts  Something       205 

glass  windows,  behind  which  she  looked  for  an  informant. 
A  slim,  weary  looking  nun  came  at  last,  looking  at  her 
from  behind  steel  rimmed  glasses  without  curiosity. 

"Macmillan — yes,"  she  said,  "you're — ?" 

"I'm  his  wife." 

The  nun  accepted  the  fact  simply  and  as  if  she  yielded 
Freda  certain  rights  and  privileges.  Freda  felt  fright- 
ened. She  wanted  to  go  into  Gregory's  room,  kneel  down 
by  his  bed  and  tell  him  to  get  well.  She  could  see  it 
wasn't  going  to  be  as  direct  as  that. 

A  buzzing,  muffled  bell,  sounded  by  the  nun,  had 
summoned  a  nurse,  who  came  into  the  office  thumping 
heavily  on  her  flat  rubber-heeled  shoes.  She  was  com- 
missioned to  take  Freda  to  the  last  room  in  corridor  "A" 
— the  "typhoid  case."  Freda  left  her  bag  in  the  office 
and  followed  the  nurse,  as  she  clumped  indifferently  along. 
The  presence  of  the  nurse  bothered  her.  She  wanted  to 
get  rid  of  her — tell  her  she  would  go  on  alone  but  she  did 
not  dare.     In  corridor  "A"  the  nurse  gave  her  a  chair. 

"I'll  find  his  nurse  and  see  if  you  can  see  him  now." 

"I'm  his  wife,"  said  Freda. 

The  nurse  nodded. 

"I'll  get  the  nurse  first.  She  wouldn't  like  me  to  bring 
any  one  in  without  calling  her  first,  you  see."  She  smiled 
a  little  as  she  explained  this  convention  of  the  hospital  and 
her  smile  angered  Freda.     It  seemed  an  intrusion. 

Gregory's  nurse  came  to  her.  She  held  out  a  friendly 
hand. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come.  We're  doing  our  best  but  I 
was  glad  when  the  doctor  wrote  you,"  she  said  simply. 

Something  in  her  tone  pricked  the  adventure  spirit  in 
Freda.  It  lay  flat,  useless,  a  bit  of  torn  balloon.  She 
saw  herself  as  this  other  woman  saw  her — a  wife,  come  in 
time  of  stress  to  a  sick  husband,  not  a  lover  to  a  meeting. 


206  Spellbinders 

That  was  what  she  herself  had  colored  her  worry  with. 

Panic  seized  her.  She  followed  almost  resistingly. 
The  door,  with  its  printed  "No  Visitors"  sign  was  opened 
softly.  She  had  to  accustom  her  eyes  to  the  darkness. 
A  smell  of  disinfectants,  clean  and  pungent,  came  to  her. 
There  was  the  bed,  white  and  high.  She  made  her  way 
towards  it  falteringly.  The  head,  bandaged  for  coolness, 
did  not  turn  to  her.  It  was  only  when  she  stood  by  the 
bedside  that  it  moved  a  little,  restlessly.  He  did  not  look 
real  to  her,  not  like  himself. 

"Gregory,"  she  said  mechanically. 

His  fever-dulled  eyes  looked  up  at  her — lighted.  He 
made  one  motion  permeating  his  whole  body  as  if  he 
would  rise  in  spite  of  the  quickly  detaining  hand  of  the 
nurse. 

"Angel,"  he  said  huskily,  "you  angel  of  God — Freda." 

The  sound  of  his  voice  was  a  release.  All  her 
frightened  feelings,  reassured,  warmed  into  life,  flooded 
Freda.  She  sank  down  by  his  side,  her  head  bent  over 
the  hot  hand,  which  lay  so  impotent  on  the  gray  blanket. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

GAGE  FINISHES  IT 

THE  Convention  went  on  as  Gage  had  predicted.  It 
held  few  surprises.  Here  and  there  a  wave  of  new 
sentiment  was  perceptible  but  the  old  rules  held  good. 
The  tremendous  heat  was  a  factor.  It  made  many  of 
the  delegates  relapse  very  easily  into  the  political  fatalism 
which  is  the  breath  of  life  to  party  control. 

To  the  women  it  was  more  interesting  and  more  dis- 
appointing than  it  was  to  the  men.  They  were  interested 
because  it  was  all  new.  They  were  disappointed  because 
every  one  seemed  to  give  in  to  the  obvious  so  readily. 
Harriet  Thompson  and  her  group  were  somewhat  grim — 
humorous  enough.  They  had  not  expected  anything  else 
really. 

It  was  an  exhausting  week.  There  was  a  threat  that 
the  Convention  might  go  over  into  the  succeeding  week 
but  that  was  unfulfilled.  Saturday  night  Margaret  and 
Helen  went  back  to  St.  Pierre  too  tired  and  worn  to  even 
talk  much  to  each  other,  thoughtful,  depressed  a  little 
and  revolving  new  enthusiasms  at  the  same  time.  But 
now  that  they  were  emerging  from  the  impersonal  world 
in  which  they  had  been  they  felt  the  pressure  of  the  per- 
sonal responsibilities  they  both  were  speeding  toward, 
perhaps,  for  they  sat  in  silence  in  their  compartment,  each 
full  of  her  own  reflections.  Younger  and  less  experienced 
women  would  have  welcomed  the  egotism  of  their  own 
visions — the  anticipations  of  scenes  in  which  they  would 
be  central.    Helen  and  Margaret,  fresh  from  the  lift  of 

207 


208  Spellbinders 

experience  which  was  largely  intellectual,  did  not  look 
anticipative,  or  particularly  happy. 

Helen  had  wired  Gage  that  she  was  coming  and  he  met 
her  at  the  station.  One  glance  at  his  dark  face  told  her 
all  she  needed  to  know  of  his  mood.  He  took  her  bags, 
not  offering  to  kiss  her  and  she  and  Margaret,  oddly  con- 
strained, got  into  the  waiting  car.  Margaret  was  dropped 
at  her  apartment  and  there,  at  the  door,  Gage  vouchsafed 
his  only  conversation.  He  asked  them  briefly  if  they 
"were  satisfied  with  the  show"  and  his  voice  was  heavy 
with  ridicule. 

"1  think  we  were,"  said  Helen,  "we  didn't  expect  as 
much  as  you  did,  perhaps,  Gage." 

A  light  answer,  ringing  sharply.  Margaret  went  into 
her  room  and  flung  open  the  windows  to  air  it.  At  the 
window  she  looked  down  the  street  but  the  Flandon  mo- 
tor had  disappeared. 

Helen  kept  wishing  that  it  were  not  Sunday.  Sunday 
was  such  a  long,  intimate,  family  day.  She  meant  to  have 
been  very  definite  with  herself  about  what  her  mode  of 
approach  to  Gage  would  be.  She  found  herself  flounder- 
ing again.  Of  course  there  could  be  no  compromise  now. 
This  business  with  this  girl  had  to  be  sifted  through,  ad- 
mitted— faced.  She  supposed  there  was  nothing  at  all 
left  of  any  feeling  for  Gage.  He  had  been  outrageous 
and,  even  as  she  thought  that,  she  worried  about  him. 
He  did  look  so  very  badly.  Other  people  must  be  notic- 
ing it  too. 

He  said  nothing.  At  the  house  he  helped  her  out  and 
went  into  the  house  with  her.  She  sought  the  children. 
They  were  delightful  and  welcoming,  full  of  questions, 
of  tales  about  the  fun  they  had  while  she  was  away, 
eager  for  presents.  Helen  kept  the  children  with  her, 
nervously,  postponing  the  encounter  with  Gage,  wishing 
he  would  go  down  to  the  city.    But  he  did  not.    He  hung 


Gage  Finishes  It  209 

about,  ominous,  smoking,  reading,  yet  not  reading  with 
absorption,  suddenly  throwing  book  or  paper  aside  and 
restlessly  trying  some  new  one,  watching  Helen. 

She  was  pent  up.  There  was  such  a  contrast  between 
the  easy  interchange  of  yesterday  and  the  constraint  of 
to-day.  The  house  didn't  seem  big  enough  to  hold  her 
and  Gage.  She  went  about  her  work  trying  to  be  normal, 
directing  the  maids,  playing  with  the  children,  unpacking 
her  bags.  All  the  time  she  felt  him  watching  her  even  if 
she  were  not  in  the  same  room,  felt  his  brooding  concen- 
tration on  her,  knew  he  was  wondering  what  she  thought 
about,  whether  she  was  glad  to  be  back,  what  she  was 
going  to  do  about  Freda  Thorstad.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  married  life,  she  had  the  sense  of  marriage  as  a  trap. 
It  had  never  been  that.  There  were  times  when  she  had 
been  a  little  restive,  but  she  had  always  been  building  on 
a  rock  of  belief  in  marriage,  joy  in  it.  It  was  different 
to-day.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  come  in  out  of  the  fresh 
air  of  clean  discourse,  free  intercourse,  into  a  narrow 
room  where  she  was  shut  up  with  a  growling  man — a 
room  heavy  with  discord,  enmity,  suspicion. 

The  morning  passed  somehow.  They  had  finished  din- 
ner and  she  was  waiting  for  Gage  to  propose  something. 
He  usually  took  the  children  for  country  drives  on  Sun- 
day. They  were  in  the  big  sunroom,  shady  now  with  its 
awnings  let  down,  and  Helen  was  stretched  out  on  a 
white  willow  chaise  longue  trying  to  believe  she  was  ri- 
diculous and  making  mountains  out  of  molehills  when  a 
maid  came  in  to  announce  a  caller. 

"There's  a  lady  and  gentleman  to  see  Mr.  Flandon." 

"You  hear,  Gage?" 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Gage. 

"I  think  it's  a  lady  who's  been  here  before." 

Gage's  face  was  interested.  He  rose  from  his  chair 
and  followed  the  maid.    Helen  heard  a  brief  colloquy  of 


210  Spellbinders 

voices  then  Gage  saying,  "Come  out  here  where  my  wife 
is,  Mrs.  Thorstad." 

He  reappeared  through  the  French  doors  with  the  little 
Mohawk  lady  behind  him,  and  behind  her  a  man,  a  rather 
stooping,  pleasant- faced  gentleman  with  well  poised  head 
and  an  air  of  mingled  anxiety  and  embarrassment.  His 
manner  was  unlike  that  of  his  wife  which  was  definite, 
sharp,  assertive,  even  before  she  spoke.  As  she  saw  them 
Helen  had  the  quick  perception  of  a  cfisis.  The  parents 
of  this  girl  here  together  could  mean  only  complications 
of  trouble.  Her  mind  stiffened  itself  for  whatever  might 
be  coming,  as  she  rose  and  greeted  Mrs.  Thorstad  with 
easy  cordiality  and  accepted  the  introduction  to  her  hus- 
band graciously. 

"Did  you  enjoy  the  convention  ?  I  didn't  see  you  again 
after  Wednesday." 

"No,"  answered  Mrs.  Thorstad,  "I  came  up  to  St. 
Pierre  on  Friday  night." 

She  seated  herself  in  the  chair  Gage  brought  for  her, 
a  little  uneasily,  with  a  righteous  wriggle  of  her  thin 
body.  Her  husband  and  Gage  stood  together  exchanging 
a  few  commonplace  remarks.    The  air  was  electric. 

Surprisingly,  it  was  Mr.  Thorstad  who  began. 

"We  are  sorry  to  intrude  upon  you  on  this  Sunday 
afternoon  but  our  errand  is  pressing  and  it  will  be  best 
to  make  it  clear  at  once.  My  daughter  has  been  employed 
in  your  office,  Mr.  Flandon." 

"Yes?" 

"My  wife  came  from  Chicago  to  pay  her  a  brief  visit. 
She  found  that  Freda  had  gone  away,  leaving  no  address 
with  any  one.  We  are  very  much  concerned — greatly 
disturbed.  My  wife  went  at  once  to  your  office  and 
there  saw  your  partner — Mr.  Sable,  is  it?"  Gage  in- 
clined his  head —  "You  were  not  there.  I  believe  Freda 
was  directly  in  your  employ.     Mr.  Sable  tells  my  wife 


Gage  Finishes  It  211 

that  Freda  resigned  her  place  on  Friday  morning.  Ques- 
tioning him  we  find  that  she  was  asked  to  resign — that," 
he  paused  and  spoke  with  difficulty,  though  still  calmly, 
"that  rumors  subversive  to  her  character  have  been  afloat. 
She  has  disappeared,  Mr.  Flandon."  The  stoop  in  his 
shoulders  had  somehow  straightened.  He  was  as  tall 
as  Gage  as  he  looked  at  him  with  restraint  and  yet  with 
indictment.  "Do  you  know  where  my  daughter  is,  Mr. 
Flandon?" 

He  stopped.  Mrs.  Thorstad  edged  to  the  side  of  her 
chair,  foot  tapping  nervously  on  the  floor,  eyes  on  Gage. 
Helen's  eyes  were  on  him  too,  though  there  was  no 
change  in  her  attitude.  She  had  not  paled  or  flushed.  It 
might  have  been  the  most  casual  of  conversations. 

The  second  before  Gage's  answer  weighed  on  all  of 
them.  He  looked  as  if  he  were  pondering  something — \ 
then  back  at  Mr.  Thorstad.  His  voice  was  even  and  con- 
trolled. 

"No,  Mr.  Thorstad,  I  don't  know  where  your  daugh- 
ter is." 

"Why  did  she  leave  your  office?" 

"She  was  discharged  by  my  partner  in  my  absence, 
most  unjustly,  for  preposterous  suspicions.  I  shall  do, 
my  best  to  reinstate  her." 

"It  will  not  be  necessary,  sir." 

Mrs.  Thorstad  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"And  what  were  these  suspicions?"  She  waited  for 
no  answer,  turning  quickly  on  Helen.  "I  went  to  see 
Mrs.  Brownley  to  find  out  if  she  could  tell  me  and  her 
attitude  is  most  peculiar — most  peculiar.  She  insinuated 
that  I  should  give  up  my  work  to  keep  watch  over  my 
daughter.  She  cast  reflections  on  me  as  a  mother.  I 
told  her  that  I  had  always  upheld  the  strictest  doctrines 
of  the  home  and  the  family,  that  I  had  always  insisted 
on  a  moral  purity  before  everything  else.    That  I  should 


212  Spellbinders 

be  so  treated  amazed  me!  My  daughter  has  always  had 
the  strictest  upbringing.  What  ideas  of  modern  license 
she  had  absorbed  from  contact  with  this  Miss  Duffield  I 
am  sure  I  don't  know.  I  always  objected  to  that  woman. 
I  asked  Miss  Duffield  about  it  this  morning.  She  doesn't 
know  where  Freda  is — at  least,  she  says  she  doesn't. 
Well — who  does?  You  took  her  into  your  office,  Mr. 
Flandon,  you  exposed  her  to  this  gossip — " 

"Please,  Adeline—" 

"I  need  not  tell  you,  Mr.  Thorstad,  that  this  unwar- 
ranted action  of  my  partner  has  incensed  me  beyond 
measure.    I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  your  daughter." 

Mr.  Thorstad  inclined  his  head  a  little. 

"We  wish  to  find  her,  Mr.  Flandon.  We  are  greatly 
disturbed.  My  daughter  went  away  of  her  own  free 
will,  according  to  a  letter  I  had  from  her.  She  was  evi- 
dently drawn  by  some  enthusiasm  of  emotion." 

"She  wrote  you  that?" 

"To  that  effect." 

Mrs.  Thorstad  broke  in  again. 

"Even  before  your  wife,  Mr.  Flandon,  I  think  we 
should  tell  you  that  we  know  that  your  name  has  been 
coupled  with  our  daughter's  name.  Mr.  Sable  let  us  infer 
it.    I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Flandon — " 

She  did  not  look  sorry.    She  looked  vindictive. 

"I  know,"  said  Helen,  "I  believe,  Gage,  that  you  could 
throw  some  light  on  all  this.  I  don't  know  that  you 
could  but  Miss  Thorstad's  parents  should  be  relieved  of 
anxiety  if  possible." 

Gage  looked  at  his  wife.  Her  eyes  met  his  levelly, 
seemingly  void  of  feeling,  empty  even  of  anger.  Her  re- 
sistance to  pain  woke  admiration — then  cruelty.  So  that 
was  all  she  cared,  was  it  ?    New  woman — modern  stuff ! 

"I  do  not  know  where  Miss  Thorstad  is,"  he  repeated, 


Gage  Finishes  It  213 

"I  think,  however,  that  a  girl  with  her  strength  and  con- 
trol is  safe  wherever  she  may  be.  She  may  think  it  best 
to  keep  her  plans  to  herself  for  the  time  being — " 

"You  speak  with  curious  confidence,  Mr.  Flandon," 
said  Mrs.  Thorstad  sharply.  "This  matter  involves  my 
daughter's  reputation.', 

"From  what  I  have  seen  of  your  daughter  she  is  above 
gossip,"  answered  Gage.  He  turned  to  the  other  man. 
"I  am  sorry  I  cannot  help  you.  I  am  more  sorry  than 
I  can  say  that  she  was  treated  unfairly  in  my  office  and 
I  shall  do  my  best  to  adjust  that.  If  I  should  hear  from 
her  of  course  you  will  be  informed." 

Mr.  Thorstad  looked  a  little  tired.  He  had  perhaps 
keyed  himself  to  this  encounter  and  found  it  exhausting 
to  have  it  end  in  futility. 

"I  shall  pursue  my  inquiries,  of  course.  It  is  not  a 
matter  which  we  care  to  have  handled  through  any  or- 
dinary channels  of  search  as  we  are  informed  by  her 
that  she  left  voluntarily.  It  may  be  that  she  will  com- 
municate with  me  to-morrow." 

An  embarrassed  pause  came. 

"Come,  Adeline,"  said  her  husband,  still  initiative. 

Mrs.  Thorstad  felt  and  looked  frustrated.  She  frowned 
at  him,  tight  lips  compressed.  It  was  clear  that  she  was 
neither  pleased  nor  satisfied,  that  she  wished  to  ferret 
further  and  the  presence  of  her  husband  restrained  her. 

"The  affair  shall  be  probed,"  she  said  somewhat  ab- 
surdly. 

"You  mustn't  go  out  in  this  heat  without  a  cool  drink. 
Let  me  give  you  a  glass  of  lemonade,  won't  you?" 

Helen  rang  the  bell  before  Mrs.  Thorstad  could  pro- 
test. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Flandon,"  she  subsided* 
stiffly. 


214  Spellbinders 

Gage  seized  his  opportunity. 

"I'll  get  you  a  real  drink,  Thorstad.  Come  out  in  the 
dining-room,  won't  you?" 

Mr.  Thorstad,  on  the  point  of  refusal,  checked  him- 
self. Gage's  face  was  significant.  He  wanted  to  see 
him  alone. 

In  the  dining-room  they  were  out  of  earshot.  Gage 
poured  two  small  glasses  of  whisky,  his  companion's  re- 
straining hand  dictating  the  amount.  Even  then  Mr. 
Thorstad  waited.  He  raised  his  glass  perfunctorily  but 
did  not  drink. 

"I'm  sorry  for  this  mess,  Thorstad.  I  don't  believe 
in  taking  notice  of  gossip  ordinarily  and  you  can't  help 
what  a  lot  of  small  people  think.  But  I  saw  something 
of  your  daughter  in  my  office.  I  admired  her  character, 
her  idealism  immensely.  I — am  not  involved  in  any  way 
with  her.  I  believe  wherever  she  is  that  she  is  happy — 
and  safe." 

"Did  she  leave  the  city  because  of  that  dismissal  from 
your  office  ?" 

Gage  strode  up  and  down  the  room. 

"That's  it !  I  don't  know.  It  might  be.  I  was  in  Chi- 
cago. My  partner  took  it  on  himself  to  let  her  go.  How 
deeply  he  wounded  her  I  don't  know.  I  was  appalled 
when  I  heard  what  he  had  done.  I  am  going  to  make 
reparation  to  her  in  some  way,  I  assure  you.  It's  the  sort 
•of  thing  that  is  hard  to  repair  but  I  shall  do  my  best  when 
I  know  where  she  is." 

"Why  did  they  talk  about  her  in  connection  with  you, 
Flandon,  if  there's  nothing  to  it?' 

"Fools.     I  shan't  contradict  them." 

"It  might  be  wise  to  contradict  them." 

"No."  A  gleam  of  hysteria  was  in  Gage's  smile.  "Let 
them  say  what  they  please  as  long  as  it  doesn't  hurt  Miss 
Thorstad." 


Gage  Finishes  It  215 

"It  may  do  that." 

"Then  we  stop  it.  But  there's  no  point  in  statements 
now  that  there  is  no  possible  connection  between  our 
names.  The  thing  is  to  find  her  if  you  feel  she  ought  not 
to  be  left  alone." 

"Why  should  she  be  left  alone?  She  may  be  in  dis- 
tress." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Gage  was  guarding  Freda's  secret 
as  best  he  could  and  trying  to  reassure  her  father  who 
so  inspired  sympathy  and  respect.  "She  is  so  con- 
trolled— so  high  minded  that  she  would  act  wisely,  I'm 
sure." 

Mr.  Thorstad  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Then  you  have  no  further  information?" 

"No — only  I  hope  you'll  take  my  word  that  I'm  not 
involved." 

"I  am  inclined  to  do  so."  Mr.  Thorstad  put  down  his 
untasted  glass  on  the  table  and  accepted  Gage's  out- 
stretched hand.  "I  do  not  feel  exactly  as  her  mother  does 
about  the  matter.  Of  course  Mrs.  Thorstad  is  actuated 
by  a  mother's  great  anxiety.  I  am  a  little  more  inclined 
to  trust  to  Freda's  judgments.  She  is,  as  you  say,  not  a 
person  to  be  the  victim  of  any  easy  emotion  or  to  yield 
to  any  false  persuasion.  She  has  great  perception  of  the 
alliance  between  true  things  and  beautiful  things." 

"I  saw  that,"  said  Gage.  "You're  very  wise,  Mr. 
Thorstad.  It's  too  bad  she  can't  be  left  alone  to  work 
this  out." 

"Personally,"  went  on  the  other,  "the  scandal  doesn't 
perturb  me  at  all.  It  is  for  her  mother's  sake  that  I  feel 
obliged  to  overstep  my  own  inclination  to  let  Freda  have 
her  own  time  to  make  her  confidence.  I  felt  it  necessary 
to  trace  any  possible  connection  you  might  have  with  her 
disappearance.  I — I  am  apt  to  take  the  word  of  a  gen- 
tleman as  truth,  Mr.  Flandon." 


216  Spellbinders 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  Gage.  "Very  good.  I  am 
deeply  grateful." 

"Shall  we  return  to  the  others  ?" 

The  two  women  were  sitting  silently,  making  no  pre- 
tense at  casual  talk,  their  curiosity  as  to  what  the  two 
men  had  said  to  each  other  indisguisable. 

"We  must  go  now,  Adeline." 

She  rose,  evidently  torn  by  a  desire  to  be  easy  and 
complaisant  and  a  disgruntled  lack  of  satisfaction  in  the 
interview. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "I'm  sure  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  rest  for  a  second  until  my  daughter  is  safe  and  with 
me  once  more." 

They  were  courteous  to  the  little  outbreak  of  melo- 
drama but  not  too  responsive. 

Helen  and  Gage  accompanied  their  visitors  to  the  door 
and  saw  them  walk  down  the  street,  the  sunlight  bring- 
ing out  the  shiny  seams  in  Mr.  Thorstad's  coat,  beating 
unmercifully  on  the  defiant  little  daisies  in  his  wife's  hat. 

Helen  turned  to  her  husband. 

"Why  didn't  I  hear  of  this?" 

"I  didn't  know  you'd  be  interested.  You've  been  so 
interested  in  national  affairs  I  couldn't  suppose  you  had 
time  for  little  local  troubles." 

She  set  her  lips  in  anger. 

"You  gain  nothing  by  viciousness,  Gage.  Where  is 
that  girl?" 

"Haven't  I  said  I  didn't  know?" 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

"That's  quite  in  line  with  your  other  theories  of  wifely 
conduct." 

"I'm  not  interested  in  quarreling  with  you,  Gage.  I 
simply  want  to  know  for  my  own  protection  what  is  go- 
ing on.  Is  it  true  that  George  Sable  discharged  that  girl 
while  you  were  away?" 


Gage  Finishes  It  217 

"Quite  true." 

"For  what  reason?" 

Gage  lighted  a  swaggering  cigarette. 

"His  mind  runs  along  with  yours,  Helen.  He  had 
the  same  delicate  ideas  you  have." 

"Where  did  the  girl  go?" 

"Didn't  you  hear  me  say  I  didn't  know  ?" 

"Has  she  run  away  from  you  too?  Have  you  got 
that  girl  into  trouble?" 

"I  always  hated  that  phrase,"  answered  Gage,  non- 
chalantly. 

"Why  did  you  come  back  from  Chicago  so  soon?" 

"Why  should  I  stay?  A  fifth  wheel?  The  entirely 
superfluous  husband  of  one  of  the  great  feminist  suc- 
cesses ?" 

"I  asked  you  why  you  came  back."  She  framed  each 
word  with  an  artificial  calmness. 

"You  haven't  taken  so  much  interest  in  me  for  years, 
Helen.  It's  true,  isn't  it?  All  a  man  has  to  do  is  to 
get  involved  in  a  scandal  to  have  the  women  after 
him." 

She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  face  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
sight  of  him. 

"You're  a  madman,  Gage." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised." 

Then  she  dropped  into  a  chair,  weeping  long  sobs, 
drawn  from  emotion  controlled  beyond  her  strength. 

"Why  do  you  torture  me  so,  Gage  ?  What  devil  pos- 
sesses you  ?" 

He  had  always  had  a  horror  of  seeing  her  weep.  He 
took  a  step  towards  her. 

"I'm  tired — I'm  tired,"  sobbed  Helen. 

Gage  stiffened.  "And  why  are  you  tired?  Because 
you've  been  running  around  Chicago.  I  didn't  tire  you. 
You  tire  yourself.    Then  you  come  back  exhausted  and 


218  Spellbinders 

blame  me  because  you  are  exhausted.  If  you  were  more 
a  wife — less  a  public  character — " 

She  had  risen  and  stood  looking  at  him  angrily  again, 
eyes  wide  with  hurt  and  disappointment. 

"You  jealous  fool — you're  on  the  point  of  becoming 
a  degenerate.  If  even  Sable  has  to  watch  over  your  ac- 
tions— publicly  reprove  you — " 

"He  won't  do  it  again,"  said  Gage,  "not  again.  I  am 
severing  my  connection  with  the  upright  Sable.  He'll 
never  pry  into  my  business  again.  I'll  tell  you  that  for 
certain." 

She  stopped  considering  the  personal  trouble  in  sheer 
amazement. 

"You're  not  going  to  break  with  Sable?" 

"I  told  him  yesterday  I  was  through.  In  fact  I  told 
him  cordially  to  go  to  hell.  He  can't  play  the  black 
mammy  to  me,  you  know." 

"But — what  are  you  to  do  ?" 

"Oh,  I'll  do  something.  I'll  show  him  whether  I  have 
to  sit  and  take  dictation  from  him." 

"You're  going  to  practice  by  yourself?" 

"When  my  plans  are  ready,  you'll  hear  them,  Helen." 

She  shivered. 

"I  wonder  if  you're  headed  for  destruction." 

"You  told  me  I  was  a  degenerate.    Well,  we'll  see." 

Looking  at  him  she  saw,  underneath  the  mask  of 
tawdry  control,  the  agitation  he  was  in  and  the  ravages 
of  nervousness.  His  eyes  were  not  steady — they  were 
too  bright  and  he  had  a  way  of  biting  at  his  lower  lip 
which  she  could  not  remember. 

She  straightened  her  hair  mechanically  and  went  past 
him  toward  the  sunroom.  As  she  went  she  heard  him 
return  to  the  dining-room  and  stood  with  clenched  hands 
trying  not  to  interfere  until  she  had  thought  things  out. 

Lying  down  in  the  same  chair  she  had  occupied  before 


Gage  Finishes  It  219 

she  tried  to  get  some  order  into  her  thoughts.  The  prob- 
lem of  Freda,  so  overwhelmingly  great  a  moment  ago, 
was  matched  if  not  overcome  by  her  realization  that  Gage 
was  going  from  bad  to  worse — that  he  seemed  to  be  on 
the  loose  mentally — tearing  from  catastrophe  to  catas- 
trophe. The  significance  of  a  quarrel  with  Sable  grew 
upon  her — the  probability  of  all  the  financial  trouble  that 
Gage  might  be  letting  himself  in  for.  And  the  thing  that 
she  came  back  to  time  after  time  as  her  thoughts  went 
around  in  circles  was  that  Gage  did  not  seem  to  care  any 
more — that  he  was  so  recklessly  indifferent  to  what  she 
thought — to  what  was  wise  for  the  children  and  for  her. 

For  the  moment  she  had  passed  beyond  the  point  of 
thinking  of  rights  and  wrongs.  She  was  concentrated 
on  immediate  necessities.  She  almost  forgot  the  compli- 
cation of  Freda  and  was  shocked  at  herself  when  that 
came  back  to  her. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  Gage's  car  starting  down  the 
driveway.  He  was  going  out  then.  All  her  feelings, 
her  thoughts  bore  on  one  question.    Where  was  he  going? 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


IN    HOSPITAL 


AFTER  the  first  twenty-four  hours  with  Gregory- 
nothing  seemed  real  to  Freda  outside  of  the  hos- 
pital. She  had  found  for  herself  a  hotel  room,  a  shabby 
little  room  in  a  second  rate  hotel,  a  room  with  scarred 
brown  maple  bureau  and  iron  bed  from  which  the  paint 
had  peeled.  It  looked  out  on  a  fire  escape  and  a  narrow 
court,  helplessly  trapped  between  tall  brick  walls. 

To  that  room  she  went  for  her  periods  of  rest,  for  the 
hospital  had  no  vacant  room  or  even  bed,  where  she  might 
relax.  After  she  had  gone  to  the  hotel  from  the  hospital 
several  times  the  way  seemed  curiously  familiar.  Two 
blocks  to  the  east,  across  the  street  car  line,  past  the  drug 
store  with  its  structure  of  Tanlac  in  the  window — one 
block  to  the  north  and  there  was  the  entrance  of  the  ho- 
tel with  seven  or  eight  broad  cement  steps  leading  up  to 
it.  There  was  not  one  thing  which  she  passed  which  im- 
pressed itself  in  the  least  on  her  imagination — not  one 
image  that  was  vivid  enough  to  penetrate.  Night  and 
day  it  was  the  same — like  moving  blindfolded  through 
still  air.  It  was  only  when  she  went  back  to  the  hospital 
that  her  mind  seemed  to  stir  from  its  lethargy. 

The  hardest  moments  were  those  of  Gregory's  lucidity 
— when  the  sight  of  her  made  him  flame  with  a  passion 
which  leapt  through  his  restricted  and  suffering  body, 
when  phrases  came  to  his  hot  lips  which  made  her  quiver 
with  the  sense  of  him.  She  would  kneel  beside  his  bed 
and  tell  him  softly  reassuring  things  and  with  his  head 
turned  on  his  pillow  he  would  regard  her  from  the  depths 

220 


In  Hospital  221 

of  those  eyes,  always  haggardly  set,  but  now  far  sunken. 

She  had  no  faintest  doubts  as  to  her  past  or  present 
actions.  That  was  Freda's  great  triumph  over  most  of 
the  women  she  knew.  She  did  not  doubt;  she  did  not 
worry.  Most  of  them  had  carried  over  into  their  new 
self-confidence  and  their  new  chances  a  habit  of  worry 
born  of  ingrowing  responsibilities  in  the  past  and  now 
fostered  by  general  self-consciousness.  It  was  unnatural 
to  Freda  to  mope  over  her  actions  or  to  analyze  them. 
She  knew  how  to  go  ahead  and  there  always  was  absence 
of  self-consciousness  about  what  she  did,  simplicity  of 
manner,  dignity  of  step.  It  was  as  if  she  had  somehow 
stepped  over  the  phase  of  altercation,  doubt  and  experi- 
ment into  a  manner  which  did  the  unusual  easily,  but  only 
if  the  unusual  came  in  her  path,  which  accepted  new  rules, 
new  customs  without  a  flush,  and  most  of  all  was  able 
to  merge  the  best  of  feminism  into  a  fine  yet  unchris- 
tened  ease  of  sex.  She  did  not  need  either  the  little  fears 
or  defenses  of  her  mother  or  the  larger  ones  of  Margaret 
Duffield.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  was  very  com- 
plete in  herself  and  satisfying  to  herself.  She  bothered 
with  no  altercations  or  analysis. 

It  was  not  a  wholly  sad  time  for  all  the  deepening  anx- 
iety and  danger — it  was  not  a  time  for  depression.  Freda 
knew  that  she  had  come  to  grips  with  life  and  she  was 
glad  to  feel  her  full  strength  called  to  battle. 

While  they  wondered  about  her  in  St.  Pierre,  while  her 
name  ran  like  a  little  germ  of  gossip  spreading  contagion 
from  lip  to  lip  in  St.  Pierre,  she  sat  most  of  the  time  in 
the  hospital,  in  the  chair  beside  Gregory's  bed,  touching 
his  hot,  tense  wrist  with  the  coolness  of  her  fingers — she 
sat  outside  his  room  in  the  recess  of  the  bay  windows  on 
a  curved  window  seat  and  watched  people  come  and  go — 
and  once  in  a  while  she  slipped  into  the  hospital  library 
and  got  hold  of  a  book  on  pregnancy  which  fascinated 


222  Spellbinders 

her.  Skillfully  manipulated  conversation  with  the  nurse 
had  given  her  enough  information  so  that  she  had  been 
able  to  control  a  great  part  of  her  own  present  liability 
to  sickness  and  she  felt  better  than  she  had  for  several 
weeks. 

Three  days  after  her  arrival  Gregory  came  success- 
fully through  the  first  crisis  of  his  illness.  Freda  walked 
on  air  the  next  day.    The  doctor  was  cheerful  and  jocose. 

"We'll  have  that  young  Irishman  of  yours  out  of  the 
woods  in  ten  days,"  he  said  to  Freda,  and  she  had  no 
doubt  of  it. 

The  difficulty  was  not  in  the  progress  of  the  disease 
but  in  Gregory's  own  debility.  He  was  not  so  well  a  few 
days  later.  The  doctor  talked  gravely  of  exhaustion  and 
Freda  picked  up  from  the  reluctant  nurse  that  exhaustion 
during  the  third  week  was  dangerous — that  one  might 
die  because  of  it. 

For  the  first  time  she  was  fearful.  Here  was  nothing 
you  could  combat  for  him.  Here  was  a  slow  slipping 
away.  He  did  not  often  talk  now.  Almost  all  the  time 
he  lay,  incredibly  thin,  mournfully  haggard  against  his 
pillow,  too  tired  even  for  Freda  to  call  back. 

She  thought  about  death.  One  day  she  passed  a  room 
in  which  a  man  was  dying.  She  heard  the  raucous  gasp 
from  the  filling  lungs  and  trembled.  They  brought  a 
priest.  She  wondered.  If  Gregory  should  die,  would 
he  too  have  a  priest  to  guide  him  out  ?  She  supposed  that 
usually  you  sent  for  a  minister  or  priest.  A  month  be- 
fore the  mere  suggestion  that  a  soul  needed  ushering  into 
immortality  would  have  seemed  absurd  to  her  healthy 
pagan  young  mind,  but  now,  with  the  severing  of  the 
thread  so  possible,  with  the  limits  of  the  unknown  reced- 
ing even  while  they  grew  close  she  wondered.  Gregory 
was  not  formally  religious  but  in  his  poems  he  had 
seemed  so  conscious  of  God. 


In  Hospital  223 

"Most  poets  write  of  women — but  you  write  only  of 
God  and  Ireland."  So  she  had  said  to  him,  she  remem- 
bered, and  he  had  answered. 

"I  shall  write  of  woman  now,  dear  heart." 

She  went  softly  to  his  door.  No  change.  Well,  she 
would  go  to  the  hotel  for  an  hour —  But  the  nurse 
stopped  her. 

"Mrs.  Macmillan,  he  is  not  so  well.  The  doctor  thinks 
these  next  twelve  hours  will  be  the  worst.  If  you  wish 
to  leave  I  think  it  will  be  all  right.  If  not,  I  can  see  that 
you  get  a  supper  tray  and  if  he  is  better  in  the  night  you 
can  take  my  cot." 

Freda  felt  a  strange  chill  rushing  over  her. 

'Til  stay."  She  looked  at  Gregory.  "Worse?  He 
looks  just  the  same." 

"He  is  weaker — " 

The  stillness  of  the  phrase — the  helplessness.  She  sat 
down  in  the  chair  by  him  again.  It  seemed  so  absurd 
not  to  call  him  back — so  impotent.  He  looked  unguarded. 
If — if  he  should  die  he  would  go — wherever  it  was — 
there  must  be  a  future  for  a  soul  like  Gregory's  some- 
where— he  would  go  alone.  Cruel.  She  thought  of  the 
child  growing  within  her.  How  much  more  gentle  was 
birth  than  death.  Gentle  and  gradual  and  kind.  It  was 
shared,  but  this  horrible  singleness  of  dying — 

She  had  supper  in  the  nurse's  kitchen.  The  nurses 
were  kind  to  her,  faintly  curious,  preoccupied,  full  of 
that  gayety  so  characteristic  of  nurses  when  for  an  hour 
they  can  slip  out  of  the  technique  of  the  manner  which 
they  affect  and  become  informal,  unrestrained.  The 
shadow  of  Gregory's  crisis  rested  on  them  not  at  all, 
Freda  thought.  She  was  not  resentful.  But  she  ate  to 
please  the  nurse  who  had  managed  to  get  the  supper  for 
her  and  then  went  quickly  back  to  Gregory.  If  it  should 
happen  when  she  was  away!     It  must  not.     She  must 


224  Spellbinders 

go  there  to  keep  it  from  happening.  Surely  she  could. 
Surely  she  could. 

She  did  not  sleep.  The  nurse  watched  on  one  side,  she 
on  the  other,  the  nurse  nodding  a  little  and  Freda  shaking 
off  the  fearful  drowsiness  that  came  over  her  too.  She 
did  not  want  to  sleep.  She  was  afraid  that  if  she  slept, 
it  might  happen.  It  was  like  sentry  duty.  As  long  as 
she  was  awake  such  a  thing  would  not  happen.  She  did 
not  name  death  in  her  thoughts.  It  was  like  invoking  a 
presence.  She  understood  trite  phrases  as  she  thought — i 
the  triteness  of  "he  has  left  us,"  "passed  on,"  "was 
called."  How  those  phrases  irked  her  in  the  newspapers 
sometimes.  But  they  were  true.  It  was  like  that.  She 
heard  the  soft  rise  and  fall  of  the  nurse's  breathing.  She 
was  asleep — no,  not  quite. 

Now  and  then  he  moved  a  little.  His  troubled  breath- 
ing seemed  to  sigh,  slight,  weary  sighs.  Freda  bent  close 
over  him.  Here  we  are,  she  thought,  he  and  I  and  him 
within  me.  We  must  stay  close,  closer  than  death  can 
come. 

Three  hours  later,  with  the  gray  light  coming  so  early 
into  the  room,  the  nurse,  who  had  slept  a  little,  roused 
herself,  busy  immediately  with  the  routine  of  temperature 
taking,  her  cap  a  little  askew,  her  face  puffed  with  un- 
completed sleep. 

"Well,  we  got  through  that  night  all  right,"  she  said 
cheerfully,  softly.  "And  our  patient  looks  better,  Mrs. 
Macmillan.    Look  at  him — doesn't  he?" 

Freda  looked  shakily  at  him.  It  seemed  almost  true. 
He  seemed  to  be  sleeping  almost  naturally. 

"Then  you  think  he's  come  through?"  she  ventured. 

The  nurse  straightened  her  cap  professionally. 

"Well,  I  should  say  that  bad  turn  he  took  last  night 
would  be  the  last.  He'll  be  coming  along  now.  We'll 
get  some  nourishment  into  him  pretty  soon.    You  go  over 


In  Hospital  225 

to  the  hotel  and  get  some  sleep — no,  lie  down  here  on 
my  cot.    You  look  weak." 

And  now  it  was  a  new  atmosphere — an  atmosphere  of 
convalescence,  of  Gregory  coming  slowly  back  to  life, 
visibly  changing  for  the  better,  smiling,  joking  feebly, 
watching  her  wonderingly  and  devotedly,  talking  when 
he  was  allowed. 

"It's  such  a  ridiculous  way  to  begin  housekeeping," 
Freda  would  tease  him,  gently. 

"It's  a  maddening  way  and  a  marvelous  way — to  have 
all  day  to  watch  you  and  adore  you  and  not  to  dare  to 
pull  you  into  my  arms  for  fear  a  nurse  will  pop  out  on 
me. 

"You  may  be  sure  one  would." 

"How  long  do  I  have  to  stay  here?" 

"A  wheeled  chair  next  week  if  you  are  good  and  don't 
get  excited." 

"A  wheeled  chair — when  I  want  a  highway  with  you 
beside  me — " 

"If  you're  impatient — "  she  stopped  to  smile  at  him. 

"Listen,  Freda — we  go  straight  off  together,  don't 
we?" 

"Off  where?" 

"Back  home." 

"We  should  stop  to  see  my  father  and  my  mother. 
Do  you  know,  Gregory,  I  didn't  even  tell  any  one  where 
I  was  going.  I  just  came.  I  suppose  they're  all  mystified 
and  probably  worried.    Though  I  wrote  them  not  to  be." 

"Well,  we'll  stop  to  tell  your  parents.  And  then  off 
for  Ireland." 

"Have  we  enough  money?"  asked  Freda. 

"Plenty.  I  have  it  somewhere.  Let  me  see.  It  was 
a  black  bill  case — maybe  you  could  find  it  for  me.  Black 
bill  case  with  an  elastic  band  around  it.     There's  about 


226  Spellbinders 

five  hundred.  They  paid  me  in  notes — (bills,  you  say) 
— at  these  last  places  and  I  meant  to  get  post  office  orders. 
Much  safer.  Hunt  it  up,  will  you,  darling?  And  you 
might  be  looking  up  passage." 

"Passage  for  weeks  from  now,"  she  said  sternly.  But 
she  was  as  eager  as  he  and  they  smiled  at  each  other, 
doubled,  trebled  in  happiness  now  that  their  storm  had 
come  and  they  had  been  able  to  weather  it  together. 

She  went  on  the  trail  of  the  black  bill  case  and  found 
it  easily  enough.  It  was,  with  Gregory's  few  valuables, 
in  the  possession  of  the  hospital  office.  In  it  were  some 
papers,  some  letters  and  twenty-three  dollars.  Her  heart 
fell  with  a  thump. 

"Is  this  all  there  was?" 

"His  watch  too — we  never  leave  valuables  with  sick 
patients  who  have  no  relatives  about.  They  might  get 
picked  up  and  the  hospital  be  considered  responsible." 

"I  mean  all  the  money  ?" 

The  nurse  in  charge  of  the  office  wrinkled  her  fore- 
head and  looked  at  the  note  regarding  Gregory  on  her 
record. 

"Black  bill  case — letters — papers — twenty-three  dollars 
in  currency.  That's  what  he  brought  here.  Is  that  cor- 
rect?   We've  kept  the  bill  case  in  our  safe,  of  course." 

She  looked  questioningly  at  Freda. 

"That's  what  is  here,"  said  Freda,  "but  you  see  my 
husband  thought  there  was  more — quite  a  lot  more.  I 
wonder  was  he  sick  in  the  hotel  long?" 

But  the  hotel  was  a  blind  trail  and  a  suspicious  one. 
The  chambermaid  who  had  called  the  doctor  for  Gregory- 
had  left  the  town — strangely  enough  two  days  after  he 
was  taken  sick.  She  had  never  been  a  competent  girl — 
The  hotel  courteously  disclaimed  all  responsibility  and 
hoped  the  loss  was  not  great.  There  was  a  safe  in  the 
office — guests  were  requested  and  so  forth — . 


In  Hospital  227 

"Of  course,"  said  Freda,  "I  quite  understand."  She 
did.  She  understood  that  the  money  had  vanished  and 
that  it  was  not  coming  back  to  her  or  to  Gregory.  She 
went  back  to  her  hotel  room  and  counted  what  money 
she  had.  With  Gregory's  present  resources  they  had  fifty 
dollars  between  them.  And  there  was  an  unpaid  nurse 
at  five  dollars  a  day — hospital  bills,  doctor  bills,  doubtless 
bills  for  all  the  medicines.  All  those  things  and  no  money 
to  meet  them,  she  pondered.  Besides  she  must  not  tell 
Gregory.  She  must  not  worry  him  just  now  or  disap- 
point him.  The  nurse  wanted  him  kept  calm  and  cheer- 
ful.   But  in  the  meantime,  what  was  she  to  do? 

It  was  hard  going  back  to  the  hospital  and  facing  the 
nurse.  The  nurse  was  so  good  to  her  and  Freda  felt 
miserably  that  to  let  her  be  so  good  when  there  was  no 
money  to  pay  her  was  deceiving.  She  herself  was  hot 
and  troubled.  Her  clothes  were  an  annoyance.  She  had 
only  three  blouses  and  one  of  those  was  torn  at  the  neck 
irremediably.  It  was  hard  to  keep  cheerful  when  you 
needed  fresh  clothes  so  badly  and  had  hardly  enough 
money  to  pay  the  hotel  bill  mounting  up  against  you. 
But  she  forgot  all  that  in  the  presence  of  Gregory.  He 
was  feeling  better  this  afternoon  than  he  had  up  to  that 
time,  his  convalescence  taking  one  of  those  quick  strides 
so  encouraging  to  those  who  watch.  The  nurse  had 
propped  him  up  on  his  pillows  and  he  wanted  Freda  be- 
side him. 

So  she  let  the  matter  drift  and  when  he  asked  if  she 
had  found  the  bill  case  she  told  him  "yes." 

Then  that's  all  right,"  he  said  gaily,  and  saved  her 
the  lie  she  had  ready.  Nor  did  he  waste  more  time  on 
money.  He  wanted  to  talk  of  other  things,  to  ask  her 
questions  and  it  was  that  afternoon  that  she  dared  to 
tell  him  that  she  expected  their  child,  and  to  let  herself 


228  Spellbinders 

relax  a  little  in  the  companionship  of  his  happiness  and 
the  comfort  of  his  reverence. 

But  when  she  went  back  to  the  hotel  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  order  supper.  The  menu  stared  at  her — 
with  ducklings  and  roasts  and  table  d'hotes.  Figure  as 
she  would,  she  could  not  order  a  supper  for  less  than  a 
dollar.  So  she  pleaded  a  headache  to  the  waiter  and  left 
the  table  to  go  supperless  to  her  room  and  then  to  bed, 
for  the  nurse  had  said  Gregory  must  be  quiet  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MENTAL   SURGERY 

VTARGARET  knew  all  about  it  now.  From  her 
*■*-*■  point  of  view  certain  conventions  of  non-interfer- 
ence between  husband  and  wife  were  so  many  links  in 
the  pld  chain.  Undoubtedly  it  was  not  that  she  wanted 
to  force  Helen's  confidence.  But  to  come  upon  Helen 
the  Monday  after  that  exhausting  Sunday,  come  to  her 
to  say  good-by  and  make  plans  for  the  future,  and  to 
find  the  splendid  dignity  and  poise  of  the  Helen  she  had 
been  with  in  Chicago  destroyed  angered  her.  Helen  had 
told  her  the  facts.  She  had  to  tell  some  one,  she  told 
herself  in  a  justification  she  felt  bound  to  make  in  secret, 
and  Margaret  was  at  least  a  stranger  in  the  city  and 
moreover  the  only  woman  she  knew  who  would  not  make 
the  slightest  impulse  to  carry  her  story  to  other  ears. 

Margaret,  in  immaculate  white  linen,  looking  as  cool 
and  competent  as  an  operating  surgeon,  had  listened. 
She  heard  the  whole  of  the  story,  how  Gage  had  changed 
— for  that  Helen  insisted  upon. 

"He's  simply  not  himself.  I  suppose  it's  the  feeling 
he  has  towards  the  girl." 

"Don't  'the  girl'  her,  Helen.  I'm  not  a  bit  sure  of  that 
part  of  the  story.  Somehow  it's  too  preposterous  that 
Freda  should  be  languishing  somewhere  waiting  for 
Gage's  casual  attention.  I  tell  you  that  girl  doesn't  lan- 
guish. She's  not  that  kind.  She's  the  most  magnificently 
unconscious  modern  you  ever  saw.  She  wouldn't  be  any 
one's  mistress.  She  hasn't  that  much  dependence  in  her. 
Not  for  a  minute.    I  simply  don't  believe  it" 

229 


230  Spellbinders 

"She  disappeared  the  day  after  he  came  back  from  the 
convention.  And  then  he  was  away  that  week-end  she 
was  seen  at  the  Roadside  Inn." 

"I  don't  believe  she  was  ever  seen  there,' '  said  Mar- 
garet. 

Helen  put  her  hand  to  her  head. 

"I  don't  want  to  believe  it,  but  if  he  won't  deny  it — 
and  isn't  it  possible  that  the  poor  child's  run  away  even 
from  him?  If  she  should  be  going  to  have — oh,  damn, 
I  can't  say  it  even — "    She  broke  off  a  little  hysterically. 

"No— I  don't  believe  that  either."  But  for  all  her 
stout  words,  Margaret  sounded  a  little  more  dubious  this 
time.  "Let's  leave  her  out  of  it.  What  is  there  to  do 
about  you  and  Gage?" 

"I  despise  my  own  incompetence  of  decision,"  said 
Helen.  "But  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  how  to  go 
through  the  business.  It  seems  impossible  that  we've 
come  to  the  edge  of  divorce  but  I  can't  go  on  living  with 
a  man  who  acts  as  Gage  does.  I  can't,  that  is,  with  any 
measure  of  self-respect.  And  yet  I  look  around  and  the 
very  weight  of  detail — the  tremendous  business  of  un- 
winding a  marriage — it  seems  then  as  if  the  quick  flare- 
up  of  partings  that  you  read  about — the  separations  that 
never  involve  themselves  with  the  machinery  of  com- 
plaints and  retaining  lawyers  and  distributing  property 
and — moving  vans — are  quite  fantastic.  I  wonder  if  it's 
laziness  which  keeps  me  so  fearful  of  the  mass  of  de- 
tail, Margaret — " 

"Of  course  you're  trivial  on  purpose,  I  suppose,"  an- 
swered Margaret.  "The  things  you  speak  of  don't  really 
bother  you." 

"Yes.  Translated  into  more  serious  terms  I  suppose 
the  thing  that  hurts  is  the  terrible  pain  of  cleavage  be- 
tween two  people  who  have  grown  into  each  other  for 
years." 


Mental  Surgery  231 

"More  likely.  Helen,  I  don't  want  to  probe,  but  do 
you  want  to  live  without  Gage?" 

Helen  pondered. 

"I  don't  want  to  lose  him.  I  feel  dreadfully  cheated — 
put  upon.  I  didn't  want  any  of  this.  If  I'd  known  that 
he  was  going  to  feel  so  outraged  at  the  political  venture 
I'd  have  stopped,  I  think,  before  I  let  it  get  to  an  impasse. 
But  I'm  afraid  it's  that  now.  He  and  I  were — well, 
there's  no  use  debauching  myself  with  memories.  No — 
I  don't  think  I  want  to  lose  him  but  even  aside  from  this 
question  of  his  disloyalty — this  business  with  Freda 
Thorstad — he's  becoming  impossible  to  live  with.  The 
children  are  noticing  it.  He  doesn't  play  with  them  as  he 
used  to.  Goes  off  by  himself.  There's  no  free  and  easy 
interchange  between  us  at  all.  Of  course  he's  often  flatly 
rude  to  me  before  the  servants." 

"Suppose  you  gave  up  all  the  things  he  doesn't  like 
now,  would  that  solve  things?" 

Helen  shook  her  head. 

"Not  now.  The  thing  has  gone  too  far.  We've  been 
ugly  to  each  other  and  we  wouldn't  forget  that.  Besides 
I'm  afraid  I'd  be  resentful.  There's  no  reason  why  I 
should  be  completely  subject  to  Gage's  slightest  word. 
We  can't  build  on  that  basis." 

"What  he  wants,"  said  Margaret  astutely,  "is  to  have 
you  subject  to  his  dream." 

Helen  smiled  rather  ruefully. 

"He  might  wake  up  from  his  dream !" 

"That's  the  chance  women  have  always  taken — even 
the  luckiest  ones." 

"I  don't  see  that  it's  any  use  for  me  to  think  over 
causes  and  rake  up  a  justification  here  and  a  justification 
there  anyway,"  said  Helen.  "The  only  thing  of  vital 
importance  is  to  decide  whether  I'm  going  to  let  events 


232  Spellbinders 

come  as  they  will  and  be  passive  under  them  or  whether 
I'm  going  to  try  to  manage  the  events." 

"I  shouldn't  think  there'd  be  much  choice  there." 

"There  is  though.  It's  so  easy  to  sit  back  and  say, 
'I'm  trapped.  I'll  just  have  to  take  whatever  fate  sends. 
There's  nothing  I  can  do.' " 

"But  you  won't,  for  there  are  no  ends  of  things  you 
could  do.  It's  complicated  of  course.  If  you  leave  Gage, 
of  course  it  puts  a  crimp  in  your  political  possibilities  just 
now,  not  that  the  fact  of  separation  would  much  matter 
but  of  course  up  to  this  point  your  political  reputation 
has  been  partly  builded  on  Gage's  name." 

"And  I  can't  trade  on  his  name  and  not  live  with  him. 
But  then  I  can't  trade  on  his  name  anyway.  I  must  de- 
fine a  position  and  take  what  is  coming  to  me  as  an  indi- 
vidual and  give  up  the  rest." 

"No.  It's  complicated  too  by  money.  I  haven't  any, 
you  know,  Margaret — and  Gage  has  made  a  lot  but  we've 
lived  rather  up  to  the  limit  of  it.  I  don't  believe  he  stands 
awfully  well  financially.  If  we  are  to  separate  things 
would  go  pretty  much  to  pieces  in  every  direction." 

"Very  much,"  said  Gage.  He  had  come  in  quietly 
and  stood  looking  at  them  in  a  kind  of  derisive  anger. 
"I'm  sorry  to  break  in  on  your  conference,  and  on  this 
delightful  exhibition  of  my  wife's  loyalty  but  since  we 
are  all  here,  let's  talk  it  over." 

He  sat  down  elaborately,  his  eyes  on  Margaret,  ignor- 
ing his  wife  fixedly. 

"Have  you  made  up  your  mind  what  we  should  do, 
Miss  Duffield?" 

"Don't  be  insulting,  Gage,"  said  Margaret,  "it's  so  un- 
necessary. I  haven't  been  interfering  with  your  affairs 
any  more  than  was  necessary." 

"Than  was  necessary  to  release  Helen  from  the  chains 
of  marriage  ?"    Gage  laughed.  "Well,  your  work  is  done. 


Mental  Surgery  233 

As  far  as  I'm  concerned  she's  released.  You  may  tell 
her,  since  you  are  in  charge  of  our  affairs,  that  I  will 
leave  her  as  soon  as  possible — and  that  is  very  soon — and 
that  whatever  financial  arrangement  is  possible  shall  be 
made  for  her  and  the  children.  She  is  correct  in  saying 
that  my  affairs  are  in  a  bad  way.  Mr.  Sable,  from  whom 
I  have  just  separated  in  business,  can  tell  her  more  about 
that.  She  might  care  to  engage  him  to  represent  her  in 
any  action  you  might  see  fit  for  her  to  take." 

Helen  had  risen  to  her  feet,  quite  white. 

"Stop !"  she  cried.  "Don't  you  dare  keep  on  insulting 
me.    You're  mad — abnormal — " 

Gage  bowed  vaguely  in  her  direction  and  continued 
speaking  to  Margaret. 

"Tell  her  that  she  is  right.  I  am  mad  and  abnormal 
and  that  she  has  made  me  so,  instigated  by  you.  Excuse 
me  now,  won't  you?" 

He  went  upstairs  but  he  could  hear  through  the  floor 
the  swift,  staccato,  shrieking  sobs  of  Helen's  hysteria, 
hear  the  whisper  of  a  maid  to  the  nurse  in  the  back  hall, 
hear  a  murmur  which  must  be  the  calming  voice  of 
Margaret.  He  paced  viciously  up  and  down — up  and 
down. 

Yet  he  had  come  home,  driven  by  an  invigorating  im- 
pulse which  had  come  to  him  inexplicably,  perhaps  born 
of  pity  and  sudden  insight  into  Helen's  mind,  come  home 
to  ask  her  forgiveness,  explain  what  Freda  Thorstad  had 
told  him  and  ask  her  to  go  away  with  him  for  a  little 
while  until  their  minds  both  cleared.  The  impulse  had 
risen  in  his  throat — it  had  choked  him  with  delight  and 
fear  lest  she  should  not  be  home.  And  then  through 
the  sunroom  doors  he  saw  them,  two  calm  women,  talk- 
ing together,  making  and  receiving  confidences,  uncover- 
ing him,  dissecting  him,  and  as  he  stood  still  and  let  the 
blackness  of  rage  sweep  over  him  again  he  had  heard 


234  Spellbinders 

Helen  tell  this  stranger,  this  inimical  stranger,  of  his 
financial  condition.  The  sense  of  outrage  overmastered 
him. 

After  a  little  it  was  quiet  downstairs  and  he  decided 
to  go  to  the  city  again,  going  downstairs,  looking  straight 
ahead  of  him.  He  wanted  to  see  the  children,  to  have 
their  reception  of  him  ease  this  last  sharp  hurt.  They 
were  in  the  garden  of  course,  and  they  greeted  him  with 
their  usual  shouts  of  delight. 

"Well,"  he  thought,  as  he  bent  down  to  caress  them, 
"I  can't  stop  now.    I  can't  stop  now." 

He  sat  down  on  the  garden  bench  and  took  the  children 
on  his  knees,  the  boy  and  girl,  so  sturdy  and  happy,  with 
fat  brown  knees  and  thick  soft  hair.  They  were  full  of 
comments  and  questions.  Peggy  was  three  and  Bennett 
just  eighteen  months  older.  It  was  going  to  hurt  terribly 
to  break  away  from  them.  Sable  had  said,  "You  can't  act 
as  though  you  didn't  have  a  family  dependent  on  you." 
He  had  shown  Sable  that  he  could  act  that  way,  that  the 
family  dependent  on  him  was  not  going  to  force  him  to 
knuckle  under.  He  stroked  Peggy's  hair.  How  restful 
it  was — if  he  could  only  stay  here  in  this  sheltered  little 
garden  with  the  children  who  had  no  tangles  in  their 
minds — if  Helen  would  come  out  as  she  used  to  come  out 
last  summer  and  sit  with  him  while  they  talked  and 
planned  of  the  beautiful  things  ahead  for  the  children 
and  their  initiations  into  living. 

Helen  had  deserted.  She  had  gone  off  notoriety  seek- 
ing. She  preferred  to  sit  in  that  room  talking  disloyalty 
to  that  woman  to  whose  hard  influence  she  had  subjected 
herself — Helen  was  driving  him  out. 

He  kissed  the  children  sternly  and  went  back  through 
the  house.  In  the  hall  Helen  met  him.  Her  face  was 
ravaged  by  hysterics,  red  hollows  under  her  eyes,  mouth 
pulled  out  of  shape.    It  hurt  to  regard  it. 


Mental  Surgery  235 

"Where  are  you  going,  Gage?" 

For  a  moment  he  was  gentle. 

"Downtown.  I'll  not  be  back  till  late.  There's  no 
use  trying  to  talk.  We  are  killing  each  other.' '  Then 
he  thought  of  Margaret  Duffield,  listening  perhaps  and 
loosening  his  wife's  hands  from  his  shoulders,  where  she 
had  placed  them,  he  went  out. 

But  that  was  not  the  only  crisis  Margaret  had  to  meet 
that  day.  She  was  eager  to  go  back  to  New  York.  There 
was  no  possible  work  left  for  her  to  do  and  she  wanted  to 
get  away  from  St.  Pierre.  She  did  not  tell  Helen  that 
she  was  planning  to  go  in  a  few  days  as  she  had  told  her 
landlady  that  morning.  When  she  left  the  Flandon  house 
Helen  was  quite  calm.  With  her  fine  power  of  organiza- 
tion she  had  already  decided  that  the  best  temporary 
thing  to  do  was  to  accept  Gage's  actions  and  see  how  far 
he  would  go,  allowing  her  action  to  be  modified  by  that 
later.  Margaret  looked  rather  pale.  The  reasonableness 
of  her  own  mind  was  bound  to  be  affected  somehow  by 
this  drama  through  which  she  had  passed  and  in  which 
she  had  been  forced  to  play  so  disagreeable  a  part.  Per- 
haps it  showed  chiefly  in  the  slight  hardness  of  her  atti- 
tude toward  Walter  Carpenter  that  night. 

She  never  seemed  to  attack  that  decision  squarely.  She 
seemed  to  try  to  deny  it  a  right  to  confront  her.  And 
yet,  definitely,  constantly,  with  less  impatience  than  a 
younger  lover  and  vastly  more  skill  than  a  less  intellec- 
tual one,  Carpenter  made  himself  felt.  Now  and  then  in 
their  discussions  and  in  their  arguments,  he  destroyed 
some  reason  against  their  marriage.  Her  defenses  had 
been  made  very  weak.  She  had  no  argument  against 
the  lack  of  liberty  in  marriage  which  he  could  not  destroy. 
He  would  grant  anything.  Indeed  he  asked  only  for  the 
simplest,  most  unadorned  marriage  bond — and  compan- 


236  Spellbinders 

ionship  which  she  had  admitted  she  enjoyed  with  him. 
She  might  retain  her  own  name  if  she  liked  without  any 
altercation — might  leave  him  for  months  at  a  time — he 
let  her  frighten  him  with  no  such  threats.  He  offered 
too,  more  leisure  for  thought  than  she  had  ever  had  in 
the  pressure  of  earning  her  own  living.  She  had  told 
him  a  little  of  what  it  meant  to  always  need  all  the  money 
she  had  in  the  bank — to  do  many  things  and  yet  never 
have  any  feeling  of  ease,  to  fear  dependency.  "It  would 
mean  a  charitable  hospital  or  going  to  a  remote  little 
Pennsylvania  town  to  an  aunt  who  lived  with  my  mother 
until  she  died  and  who  lives  on  in  the  almost  worthless 
little  place  where  I  was  born."  When  she  told  Walter 
that,  he  had  almost  won  her,  so  absorbed  were  they  both 
in  the  pity  and  dread  of  her  loneliness.  Then  again  there 
leapt  between  them  some  deep-rooted  fear,  some  instinct, 
some  dread  pulling  Margaret  back  to  her  little  island  of 
celibacy. 

It  was  far  from  an  unpleasant,  bickering  companion- 
ship that  they  had.  Margaret,  at  thirty,  past  all  the  de- 
sires of  adolescence,  informed  without  experience,  had 
given  Gregory  nothing  and  had  only  been  disturbed  and 
made  nervous  by  him,  even  while  she  appreciated  his  fine 
fire  and  ardors.  Carpenter  satisfied,  soothed  her.  They 
had  the  same  shynesses,  the  same  dread  of  absurdities  in 
themselves.  And  Margaret  was  afraid  that  she  might 
be  lonely  without  him  and  that  too  worried  her.  She 
did  not  want  to  be  lonely  for  any  one.  So  she  told  him 
and  he  laughed  and  ventured  to  bring  her  hand  to  his 
lips  and  hold  it  there.  She  did  not  draw  it  away,  per- 
haps because  she  was  reasonable,  perhaps  because  she 
was  not. 

To-night  he  talked  of  Gage,  reflecting  the  gossip  of 
the  men  of  Gage's  acquaintance.  With  them  the  fact  of 
the  severing  of  the  firm  of  Sable  and  Flandon  was  a  sub- 


Mental  Surgery  237 

ject  of  much  speculation.  Walter  was  worried  about  it, 
in  his  own  quiet  fashion.  Gage  and  Helen  were  both  his 
close  friends. 

"Talking  won't  do  any  good,',  advised  Margaret. 

"Talking  never  did  do  any  good  with  a  man.  It  drives 
him  into  himself,  and  that's  usually  unhealthy.  I  mean 
the  sort  of  talking  which  is  full  of  advice,  of  course — or 
of  prohibition." 

"Yet  some  of  you  ought  to  do  something  with  Gage 
Flandon  before  he  goes  straight  to  pieces."  Margaret 
said  nothing  of  what  had  happened  that  afternoon. 

"Yes,"  said  Walter  absently,  "he's  been  going  to  pieces 
obviously.  But  let's  not  talk  about  him.  Let's  talk  about 
ourselves,  Margaret." 

They  were  driving  through  the  summer  night,  trying 
to  get  all  the  coolness  possible.  It  was  soft  warm  dark- 
ness but  the  swift  car  made  a  wind  which  blew  back  upon 
them,  laden  with  clover  smells,  deeply  sweet.  All  the 
elaborate  mental  approaches  which  Walter  had  made  to 
the  girl  he  wanted  to  marry  were  abandoned.  He  stopped 
the  car  and  put  his  arm  around  her,  not  supplicating  but 
as  if  the  time  had  come  for  concession. 

"About  ourselves.  We  talk  too  much  impersonal  stuff, 
Margaret.  It's  great  fun  but  there's  more  to  be  done 
than  talk.  We  must  begin  on  the  other  things.  We  know 
each  other's  minds  now.  Let's  know  each  other's  feel- 
ings." 

It  may  have  been  the  night,  the  darkness,  the  remote- 
ness of  the  country  road  which  made  him  so  bold.  He 
tipped  her  face  up  to  his  and  kissed  her  eagerly,  quite 
different  now  from  the  calm  mannered  man  who  had  sat 
so  calmly  in  discission  with  her  night  after  night,  who 
had  squired  her  so  formally,  who  had  made  love  to  her 
mind  and  tried  to  capture  her  intellect  but  never  more, 
except  for  those  two  easily  restrained  outbreaks. 


238  Spellbinders 

She  stiffened  like  an  embarrassed  school  girl,  her  hands 
pressed  against  his  chest — 

"Please  don't,  Walter—" 

"Foolish  girl,"  he  said  gently,  "you  mustn't  tie  your- 
self up  so.  Let  your  mind  ride  for  a  minute  and  just 
remember  that  we  love  each  other,  just  as  every  one  in 
the  world  wants  to  love  and  be  loved." 

All  the  while  he  talked,  urging  her,  demanding  her, 
he  held  her  against  him,  unrelaxed. 

"I  love  you,"  he  told  her.  "And  I  want  to  be — oh,  un- 
speakably commonplace  about  it.  I  want  to  indulge  my- 
self in  a  lot  of  emotions  that  are  as  old  as  the  hills  and 
as  glorious.    But  I  want  you  with  me,  darling." 

Still  she  did  not  speak.  He  let  her  go  a  little  and  held 
her  shoulders,  searching  for  her  eyes  in  the  dim- 
ness. 

"You  do  love  me,  don't  you?  Why,  I've  seen  it  for 
weeks.  I've  seen  a  look  in  your  face  when  I've  come 
in — it  isn't  boasting,  lear,  it's  just  a  wonderful  confi- 
dence I  have  to-night." 

She  freed  her  hands  and  clasped  them  tightly  in  each 
other.  They  seemed  the  index  of  some  passionate  inhi- 
bition, some  repression,  which  was  charged  with  nervous- 
ness. Her  easy  freedom  had  deserted  her,  and  every 
muscle  seemed  drawn  taut. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  he  pressed  her,  "don't  be  so  afraid.  I 
won't  take  advantage  of  the  fact  you  care  for  me.  Is  it 
that  which  holds  you  back — that  worry  about  making 
concessions  to  a  man?  Everything  I've  ever  said  I've 
meant.  I  respect  every  militant  inch  of  you.  I  love  you 
just  as  you  are  and  for  it.  But  above  all  that — beyond 
it — there's  more  and  hasn't  the  time  come  for  the  least 
bit  of  abandonment?" 


Mental  Surgery  239 

"Why?"  Her  voice  was  low,  not  as  firm  in  its  tones 
as  it  was  wont  to  be. 

"Why?"  Carpenter  repeated  her  question,  "Why? 
Because  we  love  each  other  or  we  don't.  And  we  can't 
love  at  arms'  length,  dear.  We've  got  to  be  close,  trust- 
ful, together.    You  do  like  me,  don't  you,  Margaret?" 

"You  know  I  do." 

"And  you  know  I  love  you.  Won't  you  come  a  little 
way  to  meet  me?  I'm  so  sure  you  can  trust  me.  I'm 
so  sure  we  could  be  happy.  Just  let  your  mind  rest.  Let 
yourself  go  a  little." 

Her  mood  was  chilling  his.  He  tried  to  gather  up  the 
shreds  of  the  impetuosity  that  had  first  driven  him  to 
embrace  her. 

"Let's  not  talk,"  he  said  again,  almost  plaintively, 
"Can't  we  just — rest  in  each  other?" 

"But  why  are  you  afraid  of  talk?"  she  protested. 

He  dropped  his  hands  from  her  shoulders. 

"Have  I  been  afraid?  Haven't  we  talked  on  every 
conceivable  subject?  Haven't  we  said  enough  to  under- 
stand each  other  perfectly?" 

"Then—" 

"Margaret,  dear,  we're  at  it  again.  This  is  what  I 
protest — dragging  argument  into  every  natural  emotion. 
I  don't  want  to  be  mind  to  your  mind  to-night.  I  don't 
want  to  reason  or  even  think — I  just  want  to  be  man  to 
your  woman  and  caress  you  without  thought." 

But  the  verve  had  gone  out  of  his  words  and  as  it 
went  she  seemed  to  regain  her  confidence.  He  made  a 
last  attempt  to  bring  back  his  spirit.  But  his  embrace 
seemed  to  stiffen  her.  He  withdrew  his  arm  and  sat 
tapping  on  the  steering  wheel. 

"When  will  you  marry  me,  Margaret?" 

No  impetuousness  in  his  voice  now,  no  romance.  It 
met  hers  in  calmness. 


240  Spellbinders 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  must  know.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  You 
must  or  you  must  drive  me  away.  There's  no  sense  in 
further  talk.  You  know  I'll  exact  nothing  but  the  right 
to  be  near  you.  But  I  must  have  that.  I  must  know.  It 
isn't  as  if  I  were  younger  and  could  rebound  from  one 
love  into  another.  You've  got  me.  I  don't  think  of  any- 
thing else.  You  color  every  bit  of  work  I  do — every  bit 
of  thinking.  I'll  trust  to  your  terms.  I've  spent  weeks 
building  up  my  theory  of  marriage  to  suit  your  desires 
and  visions.  I  don't  want  to  play  upon  your  sympathies 
but  I've  got  to  have  you,  Margaret — or  not." 

He  sounded  very  discouraged,  very  humble,  very  des- 
perate. 

"I  think  I'd  disappoint  you,  Walter." 

The  pity  in  her  voice  and  her  own  discouragement 
made  him  turn  to  her  again  but  she  held  out  a  hand  to 
meet  his  and  he  stayed,  letting  her  clasp  his  hand  loosely. 

"I'd  be  just  like  this  all  the  time.  You  think  I'd 
change — under  emotion — when  we  were  married.  I  don't 
think  I  would.  You  don't  know  how  all  the  things  I've 
thought  and  seen  have  influenced  me.  I  couldn't  go  into 
marriage  believing  in  it  much.  I  couldn't — go  through 
it — trusting  it  much.  And  when  I  was  cold  and  I'd 
nearly  always  be  that  way,  you'd  be  disappointed  if  not 
angry.  And  if  I  did  do  as  you  say — relax — I'd  be  spoil- 
ing it  by  not  trusting  my  own  feeling.  Don't  you  think  I 
know?  Don't  you  think  I  almost  give  in  and  then  some 
devil  of  analysis  comes  and  prods  me  into  a  watch  on 
myself  ?  I  haven't  anything  to  give,  Walter — except  just 
what  you've  had.  And  the  reason  I  can't  marry  you  is 
because  while  you  say  and  I  say  that  companionship  is 
enough  we  both  know  it  isn't  all  you'd  want.  And  it's 
all  you'd  find.    It's  all  I  can  give  to  any  man." 


Mental  Surgery  241 

"But,  my  God,  Margaret,  women  and  men  have  to 
marry — ." 

"I  know.  It's  all  right  for  other  women — most  other 
women.  I'm  not  speaking  for  them  now.  They  can 
keep  reasonable  and  still  have  enough  feeling  to  tran- 
scend reason  now  and  then — carry  them  through  it."  She 
still  held  his  hand  in  a  kind  of  cold  comfort  and  he  could 
feel  her  fingers  tighten.  "I've  tried  to  have  feeling  lately, 
Walter — tried  to  see  if  I  could  find  enough — and  that 
kind  of  feeling  isn't  there.  I  can't — I  can't — don't  ask 
me. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  now  and  sat  looking  straight 
ahead  of  her.  A  cloud  slipped  past  the  moon  and  as  the 
earth  brightened  in  the  cold  white  light  Walter,  turning 
to  look  at  her  saw  her  quiet  and  rigid,  tears  in  her  open 
eyes,  a  slim  statue  of  what  she  claimed  to  be,  sterility 
of  feeling  for  him  or  any  man. 

"I'm  afraid  that  it's  true,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  you 
can  t. 

At  that,  coming  as  a  terribly  dreary  acceptance,  she 
let  the  sobs  come  and  for  a  long  while  she  wept,  her 
head  in  her  own  hands.  Perhaps  she  wept  for  him,  per- 
haps for  herself.  He  did  not  offer  to  touch  her  again — 
as  if  her  dearth  of  feeling  had  spread  to  him  in  those 
few  minutes.  When  at  last  she  straightened  herself 
again,  he  started  the  car  and  they  sped  silently  back 
through  the  country  towards  St.  Pierre. 

"Good-by,  then,"  he  said,  as  they  reached  her  door 
and  he  unlocked  it. 

"Good-by." 

She  saw  his  face,  heavy  and  lined  and  stern  and  it 
seemed  to  hurt  her  cruelly. 

"I've  cheated  vou,"  she  said  pitifully,  "but  it's  been 
myself  too.    It  is  myself." 

He  hesitated.    For  a  moment  he  seemed  ready  to  try 


242  Spellbinders 

again  and  then  he  saw  the  pity  in  her  face  stiffen  into 
resistance.     Bending,  he  kissed  her  lightly. 

"Nothing  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"Nothing,  thank  you." 

She  heard  his  car  back  away  from  the  door.  As  long 
as  she  could  hear  it  she  stood  listening.  Then  with  swift 
definiteness  she  went  to  her  closet  and  pulled  out  the 
trunk  standing  there. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BARBARA  BREAKS  LOOSE 

A  glaze  settled  over  the  surface  of  events  for  the  next 
few  weeks  in  the  Flandon  household.  Both  Gage 
and  Helen  were  torn  away  from  too  much  indulgence  in 
their  own  thoughts  by  the  implacability  of  the  things 
which  they  must  do.  Having  broken  up  his  legal  con- 
nections with  his  own  hands,  Gage  was  confronted  with 
the  necessity  of  in  some  way  making  his  next  steps  jus- 
tify his  past  action  and  an  unholy  pride  made  him  de- 
termined to  show  a  doubting  business  world  that  he  had 
been  actuated  by  deep  and  skillful  motives.  There  was 
the  alternative  of  leaving  St.  Pierre  and  that  he  was  dis- 
inclined to  do.  He  wanted  to  start  an  office  of  his  own 
and  demonstrate  with  the  greatest  possible  rapidity  that 
nothing  but  benefit  had  accrued  to  him  from  his  break 
with  Sable.  He  guessed  what  he  did  not  hear  of  the 
doubts  about  his  move,  and  he  wanted  to  put  the  world 
in  the  wrong  if  possible. 

It  was  true,  while  he  had  found  Sable's  intervention 
in  the  matter  of  Freda  the  unbearable  breaking  point,  that 
he  had  a  kind  of  long  deferred  zest  in  contemplating  his 
new  business  freedom.  Sable's  offer  had  been,  in  the  be- 
ginning, far  too  lucrative  and  too  flattering  to  lose  but 
there  was  a  cautiousness,  a  lack  of  independence  in  many 
of  their  mutual  actions  which  had  galled  Gage.  He  was 
tired  of  the  connection.  He  was  at  odds  with  the  po- 
litical clique  to  which  his  close  connection  with  the  Con- 
gressman held  him.  He  was  disgusted  with  the  result 
of  the  convention — not  that  he  had  hoped  for  much  but 

243 


244  Spellbinders 

the  flatness  of  the  political  outlook,  the  beating  of  the 
old  drums  irritated  him.  There  were  times  when  the 
exhilaration  of  the  chance  he  was  taking  lifted  him  up 
and  if  he  had  been  drinking  less  steadily  he  might  have 
turned  the  exhilaration  to  much  advantage.  But  his 
mind  was  too  nervous  to  plan  steadily  or  well.  It  shot 
restlessly  past  immediacies  into  dreams  of  a  future  when 
he  would  have  justified  every  action  to  himself  and  the 
world  and  particularly  to  Helen. 

He  ignored  and  avoided  Helen's  several  attempts  to 
come  to  an  understanding  on  the  question  of  money.  She 
knew  enough  about  their  affairs  to  feel  that  this  change 
of  Gage  must  make  a  great  difference  in  their  income 
temporarily,  even  if  he  should  ultimately  succeed.  It 
worried  her  greatly.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  a 
separation  from  Gage  but  mere  independence  did  not 
solve  the  money  question  for  them  all.  She  wanted  very 
much  to  know  exactly  where  they  stood  and  she  was 
convinced  that  the  spendthrift,  financial  optimism  of 
Gage,  characteristic  always,  but  most  marked  now,  was 
getting  them  into  deeper  waters  constantly.  Temporarily 
she  and  Gage  had  dropped  their  personal  problem.  In 
one  brief,  cold  conversation  Gage  had  suggested  that, 
pending  a  settlement  of  his  affairs  and  his  new  ventures, 
they  waive  the  personal  matters  and  Helen  had  very 
gladly  agreed. 

So  the  days  adjusted  themselves  to  a  routine  so  smooth 
and  orderly  that  sometimes  even  to  Helen  it  seemed  un- 
believable that  it  was  not  the  expression  of  ease  and 
happiness.  Only  at  times,  however,  for  as  she  looked 
at  Gage  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  conscious  of  the  strain 
under  which  he  was  laboring.  He  was  often  out  nights, 
working  or  not — she  did  not  know.  She  knew  that  the 
supply  of  whisky  in  the  sideboard  was  replenished  far  too 
often  to  serve  moderate  drinking  and  she  knew  that  Gage 


Barbara  Breaks  Loose  245 

slept  badly,  for  she  could  often  see  the  light  reflected 
from  his  windows  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning. 

He  never  molested  her  now  but  left  her  to  her  own 
activities  with  hardly  a  jeer  at  them.  Now  and  then 
some  scathing  remark  escaped  him  and  fell  blunted  from 
the  armor  of  her  indifference.  But  for  the  most  part  his 
early  chafing  under  her  prominence  was  gone.  The  flood 
of  letters  which  came  for  her  in  every  mail  aroused  no 
comment  from  him.  He  saw  her  at  work  on  the  organ- 
ization of  her  section  of  the  country  and  hardly  seemed 
to  notice  what  she  did.  Intent  as  she  was  on  learning 
what  she  could  do,  how  she  could  do  it,  always  with  the 
thought  in  the  back  of  her  mind  that  she  needed  to  find 
a  kind  of  work  that  would  earn  her  independence  as  well 
as  notoriety  she  put  an  entirely  new  seriousness  into  the 
work  she  was  doing.  The  old  dilettantism  was  gone  and 
with  the  death  of  that  half-mocking  dilettante  spirit  came 
an  entirely  new  zest  for  the  work  she  did. 

Mrs.  Brownley  was  full  of  a  glorious  naivete.  She 
wanted  to  organize  everybody.  Politics  fairly  dripped 
from  her  impressive,  deliberately  moulded  lips.  She 
wanted  to  pin  a  small  white  elephant  badge  on  every  one 
she  met.  She  had  a  practical  eye  that  liked  to  translate 
enthusiasm  into  badges,  buttons  and  costumes.  Jerrold 
Haynes,  rather  indispensable  now  and  then  to  Helen,  said 
that  he  was  sure  that  the  end  of  the  campaign  would  see 
Mrs.  Brownley  in  full  elephant's  costume.  Jerrold 
laughed  at  Helen  too.  He  told  her  frankly  that  she  was 
ruining  herself  for  an  observer. 

"A  year  ago  you  were  in  a  fair  way  to  become  the 
most  beautiful  philosopher  of  the  twentieth  century.  Now 
you're  like  all  the  rest  of  the  women — a  good  looking 
hustler.  You've  become  ordinary  in  appealing  to  your 
big  audience.  You  should  have  been  content  to  charm 
Gage  and  me." 


246  Spellbinders 

"I  was.    But  I  wasn't  allowed  to  remain  in  my  sloth." 

"No — that  serpent  of  a  Duffield  girl.  I  seem  to  re- 
member Gage  didn't  like  her  either.  I  didn't,  but  un- 
doubtedly Gage  and  I  wouldn't  agree  on  reasons,  would 
we?    Well,  where  is  she  now?" 

"Down  on  Long  Island  somewhere  with  Harriet 
Thompson,  resting.  She  was  pretty  well  fagged  out  with 
the  months  here." 

"Didn't  marry  Carpenter,  did  she?" 

"'No.  Apparently  she  didn't  or  we  might  have  heard 
of  it." 

"Carpenter  saved  himself  from  the  yoke  of  feminism 
just  in  time,  perhaps." 

"I  haven't  seen  him  lately." 

"He  sits  around  the  club  all  day  and  cools  himself  in 
case  he  should  decide  to  keep  an  evening  engagement 
and  need  to  look  fresh.  I  see  him  off  and  on.  Doesn't 
look  happy,  for  a  fact." 

"Anyway  it's  none  of  our  business,  is  it?" 

Jerrold  laughed. 

"Not  a  whit  and  therefore  interesting.  I  hate  talking 
about  what  is  my  business." 

"That's  a  common  failing,"  said  Helen  a  little  bitterly. 
"I  never  realized  how  epidemic  until  lately,  since  Gage 
has  decided  to  go  in  for  himself.  People  ask  me  about 
everything  except  my  bank  balance." 

"The  penalty  of  being  in  the  limelight,  Helen." 

She  shrugged  lightly,  a  tinge  of  weariness  in  her 
manner. 

"Don't  you  like  the  limelight  then?"  he  urged  teas- 
ingly. 

Impatiently  she  turned  on  him. 

"Oh,  more  or  less,  I  suppose.  But  I  shan't  like  it  six 
months  from  now.  I'll  be  tired  to  death  of  it  if  it  still 
keeps  coming.    You  get  fed  up  on  it  pretty  quickly." 


Barbara  Breaks  Loose  247 

"So  skeptical— " 

"You  needn't  mock  at  me,  Jerrold.  You  ought  to  ad- 
mire me  because  I'm  honest  enough  not  to  say  that  I 
weep  every  time  my  picture  is  in  the  paper.  I  go  further. 
I  am  quite  miserable  when  I  realize  that  my  limelight  is 
directed  mostly  not  at  the  inner  workings  of  my  mind 
but  at  my  dress  and  my  name  and  the  fact  that  I  take 
a  marcel  well." 

"So  you  know  that  too,  do  you?" 

"I  know  everything  about  it,"  Helen  boasted  mock- 
ingly. "I  even  admit  the  necessity  for  keeping  my  clothes 
pretty  well  pressed  and  clean.  I  may  scoff  with  the  rest 
of  you  at  Mrs.  Brownley's  methods  of  organizing  a  Jun- 
ior Republican  Club  but  I  know  that  she's  the  finest  real- 
ist of  us  all.  She  is  willing  to  admit  that  women  love 
white  elephant  badges,  and  appeals  to  them  as  the  vir- 
tuous sex,  and  fashionable  Junior  Republican  Clubs, 
which  are  Junior  Leagues  in  action.  I  can  see  myself 
developing  a  philosophy  just  like  Mrs.  Brownley  and 
learning  to  speak  of  democracy  and  the  home  with  her 
impressiveness  and  Mrs.  Thorstad's  italics  and  bending 
my  energies  to  making  the  Republican  party  sought  after 
by  women  because  after  all  it  includes  all  the  best  people." 

"You're  a  great  woman.  I  think  I'll  write  a  book 
about  you." 

She  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes. 

"You'll  never  write  a  book  about  anything,  Jerrold. 
You're  too  dilettante  to  ever  get  started.  I  know.  I  was 
the  same  way  until  Margaret  hurled  me  into  all  this  ac- 
tion. Now  I  am,  as  you  say,  spoiled  for  a  good  dilet- 
tante. I'm  spoiled  for  a  lot  of  things,  in  fact.  For  be- 
ing an  easy  going  comfortable  wife.  I'm  a  poor  wreck 
of  a  woman  politician."  She  laughed  at  him  and  looked 
so  mockingly  pretty  under  the  big  gray  chiffon  hat  she 
wore  that  Jerrold's  eyes  were  lit  with  enthusiasm.    Jer- 


248  Spellbinders 

rold  had  motored  Helen  down  to  the  Brownleys'  summer 
home  for  a  conference  with  Mrs.  Brownley,  who  had  the 
Junior  Republican  Club  on  her  hands  at  the  moment  and 
wanted  to  talk  it  over  with  Helen.  Mrs.  Brownley  had 
done  a  great  deal  of  organizing  and  much  of  it  was  ex- 
tremely effective  along  the  lines  suggested  by  Margaret 
and  Mrs.  Thorstad.  But  Mrs.  Brownley  knew  that  the 
lure  of  the  social  column  was  great  and  she  had  pressed 
Bob  and  Allie  into  action.  The  Junior  Republican  Club, 
composed  of  girls  just  preparing  for  the  vote,  was  to  be 
one  of  the  educational  features  of  the  campaign.  They 
would  be  useful,  she  pointed  out,  in  helping  when  the 
Republican  women  had  headquarters,  later — and  useful 
or  not  they  ought  to  be  interested. 

So  the  Junior  Republican  Club  was  formed  amid  much 
enthusiasm  on  the  piazza  of  the  Redding  Hotel  at  Lake 
Nokomis  where  St.  Pierre  sent  its  fashionable  colony 
during  the  summer  months.  They  had  a  president,  and 
several  news  agencies  had  already  taken  pictures  of  them 
"reading  from  left  to  right  and  from  right  to  left — 
standing  in  the  back  row,  etc."  One  of  the  agencies  had 
been  acting  for  a  New  York  paper  and  the  girls  were 
somewhat  stirred  over  the  novelty.  As  Allie  said,  "It 
was  time  some  one  did  something.  Look  what  happened 
to  Russia  where  the  Bolsheviks  drove  you  out  of  your 
homes  and  took  everything  you'd  got.  If  they'd  been 
organized  it  might  have  been  different."  Besides  her 
father  said  he  thought  women,  especially  educated  women, 
(Allie  spoke  with  personal  feeling,  having  spent  four 
thousand  a  year  at  the  Elm  Grove  School)  were  to  be 
the  salvation  of  the  country. 

She  had  plenty  of  support  and  enthusiasm.  Even  in 
these  spoiled  and  under  nourished  little  minds  a  tiny 
flame  of  enthusiasm  for  the  new  possibilities  of  women's 
lives  were  burning.     They  interpreted  the  new  freedom 


Barbara  Breaks  Loose  249 

to  suit  themselves  as  did  most  other  women.  To  them  it 
meant  a  good  deal  of  license,  a  cool  impudence  and  cama- 
raderie towards  men,  a  definite  claiming  of  all  the  rights 
of  men  in  so  far  as  they  contributed  to  the  fun  of  exist- 
ence. "Women  aren't  as  they  used  to  be"  was  a  handy 
peg  for  them  to  hang  escapades  upon,  a  blanket  reason 
for  refusing  to  accept  any  discipline.  That  was  the  sub- 
stance of  their  feminism. 

As  for  their  politics  they  were  hewed  from  the  politics 
of  their  fathers  and  their  class.  They  were  defensive  for 
the  most  part.  They  had  heard  of  the  exigent  demands 
of  labor,  they  had  seen  their  fathers  irritant  under  "Bol- 
shevik legislation" — in  their  own  shrewd  minds  (and 
many  of  them  had  the  shrewdness  common  to  smallness) 
they  knew  that  all  their  luxury  and  their  personal  license, 
their  expensive  clothes  and  schools  and  motors  and  un- 
limited charge  accounts  were  based  on  an  order  whose 
right  to  exist  was  being  challenged.  They  roused  to  its 
defense,  boisterously,  giggling,  and  yet  class  conscious. 

Helen  did  what  she  could  to  palliate  any  trouble  the 
club  might  cause. 

She  pressed  on  Mrs.  Brownley  the  need  of  not  antag- 
onizing possible  and  prospective  members  of  the  party 
by  anything  that  appeared  as  snobbishness.  Mrs.  Brown- 
ley  agreed  astutely,  starting  post  haste  on  a  scheme  for 
organizing  the  stenographers  of  the  city  and  mapping  out 
a  scheme  whereby  the  employees  of  the  large  department 
stores  might  be  drawn  into  Republican  groups.  She 
urged  Helen  to  talk  to  the  Junior  Republicans  and  Helen 
did  it. 

She  noted  Barbara  among  the  rest,  handsome  in  yel- 
low linen  and  yet  looking  tired  and  worn.  The  artificial 
penciling  under  her  eyes  was  circled  by  deeper  yellow 
brown  hollows,  and  her  restlessness  and  lack  of  interest 
in  the  whole  proceeding  were  conspicuous. 


250  Spellbinders 

"What  a  world  weary  face  that  child  has!"  thought 
Helen. 

She  remembered  one  of  Mrs.  Brownley's  confidences 
about  Barbara's  engagement  and  idly  asked  Allie  about  it. 

"Is  Bob  engaged  to  Ted?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  who  knows!"  said  Allie.  "She's  had  an 
awful  row  with  him,  but  she's  got  his  ring.  I  don't 
know  what  they  fought  about.  And  she's  such  a  fool, 
for  she  really  is  crazy  about  him  and  he  knows  it  so 
he  doesn't  pay  much  attention  when  she  rows." 

She  stopped  as  Barbara  came  towards  them. 

"I'm  going  up  to  town  over  night.  I  wonder  if  you 
and  Mr.  Haynes  would  take  me  up  ?  Have  you  an  extra 
seat?    I'll  be  a  fine  chaperon." 

Helen  frowned  a  little.  She  disliked  the  insinuation, 
just  as  she  disliked  Barbara,  but  the  girl's  request  could 
not  be  refused  gracefully. 

"I'm  sure  Jerrold  will  be  glad,"  she  said  rather  coldly. 

"When'd  you  decide  to  go  to  town,  Bob?"  asked  Allie. 

Another  girl  joined  the  group,  overhearing  the  last 
remark. 

"I  think  she's  going  up  to  keep  a  watch  on  Ted.  One 
of  the  girls  saw  him  with  that  pretty  Thorstad  girl  one 
day  at  a  hotel — the  girl  there's  been  such  a  lot  of  talk 
about." 

Helen  felt  herself  change  color  and  as  she  tried  to  get 
quick  control  caught  sight  of  Barbara's  face.  It  was 
almost  white,  but  not  as  if  white  from  shock  or  pain — 
rather  an  ugly  white,  lips  compressed,  eyes  lifted  angrily. 

"I  don't  consider  myself  in  the  least  responsible  for 
Ted's  company,  Mildred,"  she  said  sharply. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  to  stay  alone  in  the  house  with  just 
Mathilda?"  went  on  Allie. 

Barbara  looked  her  contempt. 

"If  you  are  there,"  Allie  went  on,  "call  up  Mrs.  Wil- 


Barbara  Breaks  Loose  251 

kins  and  tell  her  I've  got  to  have  those  new  white  skirts 
by  noon  Wednesday.  If  she  doesn't  get  them  here  I  won't 
pay  for  them." 

"Write  her  your  grouch,"  said  Bob,  graciously,  "I've 
got  my  own  errands." 

They  left  Barbara  at  the  portico  of  the  big  stone  house 
where  the  shades  were  drawn  down  and  the  windows 
closed. 

"Are  you  sure  you'll  be  all  right  here?"  asked  Helen. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Bob,  "the  housekeeper's  here  and 
father's  going  to  take  me  back  to-morrow  night  after  I 
get  my  shopping  done.  Thanks  so  much  for  taking  me 
up.     And  I  do  feel  so  guilty — " 

But  Jerrold  speeded  the  motor  and  the  sound  of  her 
voice  was  lost. 

"What  a  lascivious  little  mind  she  has,"  he  remarked 
as  they  drove  on  to  Helen's  house. 

"And  malicious,  I  think.  It's  odd.  Her  parents  are 
really  kindly  on  the  whole.  And  Allie's  just  a  nice 
clumsy  child." 

"Whatever  hereditary  influences  might  have  made  this 
girl,  they've  been  completely  choked,"  said  Jerrold. 
"She's  pure  and  simple  environment — rotted  by  it  just 
as  she  might  have  rotted  in  a  slum  somewhere.  The  only 
thing  that  has  survived  her  complete  subordination  to 
money  and  luxury  is  old  Brownley's  acquisitive  instinct 
— and  God  help  the  person  who  thwarts  that!" 

It  was  a  considerate  invocation  if  it  had  done  any  good, 
for  at  that  moment  Barbara  was  preparing  to  destroy 
any  obstacles  which  lay  in  the  path  of  her  acquiring  Ted. 

She  went  to  the  telephone  in  her  mother's  room  and 
called  Ted  Smillie's  house.  He  was  not  in.  She  tried 
two  clubs  and  finally  located  him. 

"Yes,  it  is  Bob.    I  came  up — oh,  to  see  a  dressmaker. 


252  Spellbinders 

No — just  to-night.  No — I'm  tired  and  hot.  I  don't 
want  to  dance.  You  come  over  here.  Why,  of  course 
it's  all  right.  Do  come.  Well,  I'll  make  you  some  lem- 
onade and  we'll  have  a  talk.  Of  course.  Eight — that's 
fine." 

But  it  was  nearly  nine  before  he  came.  Barbara  had 
found  a  black  dinner  dress  which  became  her,  and  she 
had  thrown  open  the  windows  of  the  second  floor  library 
to  the  cooling  evening  air.  She  had  found  some  supper 
for  herself,  a  casual,  icebox  supper  but  for  her  guest  she 
had  made  sandwiches.  Also  she  had  hunted  long  and 
wearily  for  some  key  which  would  open  the  wine  cellar 
and  failed  to  find  any.  But  there  were  lemons  fortu- 
nately and  she  had,  as  she  promised,  made  the  lemonade. 
By  eight  she  was  all  ready  for  him — waiting,  in  repose. 
By  nine  she  was  tense.  In  that  empty  hour  she  had  much 
time  for  thinking  and  her  thoughts  did  not  rest  her. 
They  roused  her  to  a  nervous  tension  which  was  manifest 
in  the  quick  gestures  so  unlike  her  usual  pose  of  lazy  in- 
difference. 

He  rang  at  last  and  she  slipped  down  the  stairs  to  let 
him  in.    A  single  light  burned  in  the  hall  cluster. 

He  looked  down  at  her  from  his  admired  height, 
smiling  without  eagerness. 

"Where  did  you  drop  from  ?  Nowhere  ?  I  was  going 
to  go  down  to  see  you  next  week." 

"I  had  to  come  up  to  town  to  see  about  some  clothes." 

He  laid  down  his  hat  and  turned  to  her. 

"All  alone?" 

"All  alone,"  answered  Bob  coolly.  "Even  the  house- 
keeper's gone  to  see  a  sick  sister  and  won't  be  back  until 
morning.  I  guess  the  caretaker's  in  the  basement — at 
least  I  told  him  to  stay  there." 

"You  going  to  stay  here  alone  all  night?" 

"Why  not?    It's  safe  as  a  clock.     Bars  on  mother's 


Barbara  Breaks  Loose  253 

windows  and  all  the  front  of  the  house.  Safety  locks  on 
the  doors.  Nothing  stealable  in  the  house  and  a  telephone 
and  house  phone  in  my  room." 

"All  the  same  it's—" 

"Unconventional?  By  this  time  you  ought  to  know 
I'm  the  most  unconventional  person  on  earth.  Women 
don't  bother  about  conventions  as  they  used  to.  We 
don't  need  chaperons  at  our  elbows,  thank  goodness !" 

He  smiled  appreciatively. 

"Let's  go  upstairs  to  the  library,"  said  Bob,  "and  tell 
me  what  you've  been  doing." 

He  followed  her  obediently  and  they  settled  themselves 
in  two  great  soft  leather  chairs  drawn  up  to  a  little  table, 
the  tray  of  sandwiches  and  lemonade  between  them. 

"What's  new?"  said  Bob. 

"It's  dull  as  can  be.    Nothing  stirring." 

"Who've  you  been  seeing?" 

"Pretty  much  of  nobody.  A  few  stalemates  around 
the  club.    That's  all." 

"Then  why  stay  in  town  ?  Why  don't  you  come  down 
to  join  your  mother?  It's  really  not  bad  at  Nokomis 
this  year.  Dot  Lodge  has  two  girls  from  New  York  vis- 
iting her  that  are  pretty  snappy.  And  we've  gone  in  for 
politics.    Formed  a  Republican  club." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  exclaimed  Ted.  "Torchlight  processions 
and  all  that  ?    Going  to  purify  politics  ?" 

"Maybe— can't  tell." 

"Maybe  not,  probably." 

They  scuffed  around  in  tawdry  repartee,  going  swiftly 
through  a  few  motions  of  convention  that  seemed  to  cling 
to  them.  But  shortly  he  was  sitting  on  the  arm  of  her 
chair  and  then  he  had  her  held  more  closely.  For  a  while 
she  let  him  fondle  her,  her  cheeks  growing  hot.  Then 
she  returned  to  her  line  of  attack. 


254  Spellbinders 

"If  it's  as  dull  as  you  say  here  you  ought  to  be  in  the 
country  where  we  can  make  it  less  dull." 

"Can't.  Lose  my  job  if  I  do.  The  old  man  said  that 
he'd  make  no  distinction  in  the  office  this  summer.  Me 
and  the  hallroom  boys — we've  got  to  do  our  eight 
hours." 

"Sure  it's  that?  Sure  it's  not  some  girl  holding  you 
up  here?" 

That  pleased  him. 

"So  you  came  up  to  see  me  because  you're  jealous,  did 
you?  Little  cat!" 

He  caressed  her  as  he  spoke  and  she  did  not  seem  to 
mind  what  he  said. 

"No — I'm  not  jealous.    But  perhaps  I'm  lonesome." 

"Not  this  minute  you  aren't." 

She  seemed  to  purr. 

"Well,  this  is  nice,"  he  repeated. 

"I  wish  we  could  stay  this  way  forever.  Isn't  it  fun 
to  be  away  from  every  one?" 

For  answer  he  kissed  her. 

"I  suppose  you're  dreadfully  shocked  by  my  uncon- 
ventionally," said  Bob,  "but  I  don't  care.  I  despise  con- 
ventions. I  think  women  have  a  right  to  do  as  they 
please.  Anything  they  please.  Women  aren't  slaves  as 
they  used  to  be." 

She  lay  back,  invoking  her  vulgar  license  in  the  name 
of  the  hard  won  liberties  of  women,  corrupting  the  words 
she  spoke. 

"Look  out  what  you  say,"  said  Ted.  "Look  out, 
young  woman  and  don't  get  me  to  take  you  at  your 
word." 

She  shivered  ecstatically. 

"Ted," — the  time  seemed  ripe,  no  doubt — "do  you  care 
for  that  Thorstad  girl  ?" 

-Who— Freda  Thorstad?" 


Barbara  Breaks  Loose  255 

"All  the  girls  are  talking  because  you  were  seen  at 
some  hotel  with  her." 

"Let  them  talk,  the  silly  fools." 

She  released  herself  a  little. 

"Where  is  she,  Ted?" 

"Why?"  He  began  to  tease  her,  and  her  lack  of  con- 
trol showed  instantly. 

"You  know  she's  disappeared.  Why  did  she  go  and 
where  did  she  go?" 

"Why  should  I  know?" 

"You  do  know,"  she  countered. 

"I  said  nothing  of  the  sort." 

Pulling  herself  loose,  she  confronted  him.  Every 
thwarted  undisciplined  desire  in  her  raged  at  the  frail 
control  maintained  by  habit.  Her  eyes,  no  longer  sleepy, 
blazed  at  him. 

"You  know  where  she  is.  The  creature  has  gone  off 
somewhere  to  hide  herself  and  her  shame,  I  suppose. 
The  abandoned  hussy.  I  know  all  about  it,  Ted.  I 
found  out  all  about  it." 

He  became  a  little  surly  and  yet  curiosity  seemed  to 
pique  him. 

"You  know  all  about  what,  Bob?" 

She  was  losing  control  completely  now.  The  confes- 
sion, abasement,  she  had  worked  up  to  was  not  forth- 
coming. 

"Where  is  she?"  she  stormed.  "Where  are  you  keeping 
that  girl?" 

Her  face  had  changed  from  that  of  a  pretty  girl  to 
that  of  a  furious,  uncontrolled  shrew.  Her  shrill  voice 
tore  through  the  empty  room,  struck  against  the  silence. 

"Hush,"  he  said  sharply,  "don't  yell  like  that,  Bob. 
Don't  be  a  fool." 

"I  won't  have  it.  I  won't  have  you  making  a  laugh- 
ing stock  out  of  me.     Before  everybody — everybody's 


256  Spellbinders 

talking,  laughing  at  you — at  me.  You've  got  to  give  that 
girl  up.  You've  got  to !  Pay  her  off  and  let  her  go  away 
and  hide  till  it's  over." 

The  vein  of  caddishness  was  rich  in  Ted.  He  looked 
at  her  coolly — calculated  her  hysteria,  made  her  mad- 
deningly conscious  of  his  imperturbability.  Turning 
away,  he  lit  a  cigarette. 

"So  you  won't  answer  me!" 

"I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Bob.  You  hurl 
a  lot  of  accusations  at  me  and  in  the  same  breath  you 
want  a  lot  of  promises.  I  don't  know  what  you're  driv- 
ing at,  my  dear." 

"Then  I'm  through  with  you,"  she  said,  viciously. 

An  impolite  smile  glimmered  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

"Oh,  in  that  case — "    He  turned  to  the  door. 

But  she  did  not  have  strength  enough  to  let  him  go. 
She  followed  him,  distressing  now  in  her  abandonment 
which  was  not  even  held  together  by  anger. 

"Ted — you  know  I  care — how  can  you — how  can 
you?" 

He  turned  and  appraised  her.  It  was  obvious  now  how 
much  of  her  charm  was  in  that  thrown  aside  pose  of  in- 
difference, lazy  mockery. 

"You  told  me  you  were  through  with  me." 

His  voice  was  quite  cold,  stiff.  It  brought  her  to  him 
with  a  rush,  her  arms  thrown  about  his  neck,  cheek 
against  his,  hot,  panting. 

"I  didn't  mean  it,  Ted.  Really,  I  was  just  about  crazy. 
I  won't  talk  about  that  girl — about  anything.  Let's  just 
be  as  we  were  when  you  first  came  in." 

"I  didn't  start  all  this,"  he  answered  sullenly. 

She  urged  him  back  to  his  chair,  pulled  things  into 
some  semblance  of  order. 

"There,  let's  be  comfortable  after  all  the  melodrama. 


Barbara  Breaks  Loose  257 

Here  you  must  eat  some  of  these  sandwiches.  I  made 
them  myself." 

She  poised  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  played 
with  him. 

"You  can't  understand  how  a  girl  feels,"  she  told  him, 
"under  a  lot  of  foolish  teasing.  They  all  know  I'm  fond 
of  you — a  little  anyway"  (that  fell  cold) — "and  they 
take  it  out  of  me  because  I'm  honest  and  not  a  flirt." 

Ted  chuckled.    "Not  a  flirt." 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  A  girl  who  has  been  brought 
up  as  I  have — can't  let  herself  go  the  way  other  girls  of 
a  different  class  can.  I  can  see  that  those  girls  have  an 
advantage.  We're  just  as — we're  just  like  they  are  only 
they've  been  brought  up  differently." 

She  paused  for  a  moment  in  her  fumbling,  in  the  plead- 
ing to  be  admitted  to  the  class  of  women  of  easy  virtue 
whom  she  fancied  held  her  lover  in  their  toils,  trying  to 
convince  him  that  she  was  ripe  for  abandonment.  But 
he  would  not  help  her.  He  looked  at  her  rather  curiously 
— that  was  all. 

Sighing  she  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"It's  so  nice  to  have  you  here." 

"But  it's  getting  late,  Bob.     I'll  really  have  to  go." 

She  threw  a  restraining  arm  across  his  chest. 

"Go  where?" 

"I  have  to  get  back — "  he  said  vaguely. 

It  was  time  for  her  last  card.  Actuated  by  that  vivid 
fear  of  his  possible  destination,  perhaps,  she  relaxed  com- 
pletely in  his  rather  unwilling  arms. 

"Don't  go — don't  go  at  all  to-night.  Let's  just  stay 
here — together." 

She  could  feel  him  stiffen  and  looked  up  slowly,  lan- 
guorously, slyly  at  him.  But  she  should  have  known 
what  she  would  see — should  have  known  that  so  easily 
played  a  game  would  not  be  worth  the  candle  of  compro- 


258  Spellbinders 

mise  which  would  bind  him  so  much  more  to  her.  He 
was  too  sophisticated  to  be  attracted  by  unsought  aban- 
donment. 

"Look  here,  Bob,"  he  almost  shook  himself  to  be  free 
of  her,  "you're  not  quite  yourself  to-night.  You're  a  bit 
tired  and  you'll  be  better  for  a  night's  sleep.  I'll  have  to 
run  along  now.    Don't  come  down.     Good  night." 

She  made  a  swift  movement — then  seemed  checked  by 
a  vision  of  its  futility.  The  other  door  closed  quietly 
and  heavily.  Stripped  of  the  pose  that  served  her  for 
strength,  the  vanity  which  served  her  for  modesty,  Bar- 
bara sat  in  the  leather  chair  which  Ted  had  abandoned 
and  let  her  ugly  imaginings  consume  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
Walter's  solution 

THE  Thorstads  had  not  gone  back  to  Mohawk.  Mrs. 
Thorstad  had  said  that  she  would  stay  in  St. 
Pierre  until  they  heard  further  from  Freda  and  since  it 
was  the  school  vacation  her  husband  had  agreed.  After 
the  first  shock  of  disappearance  they  had  accepted  Freda's 
letter  at  its  face  value  and  decided  to  wait  for  news  from 
her.  It  was  all  they  could  do,  in  fact.  One  alternative, 
publicity,  advertising  her  disappearance,  would  have  done 
only  harm  and  have  looked  cruelly  unnecessary  in  view 
of  her  farewell  letter  to  her  father.  The  other  alterna- 
tive, setting  private  detectives  to  work,  would  have  been 
too  expensive  and  again  her  letters  did  not  justify  that. 
They  must  wait.  Mrs.  Thorstad,  after  a  bit,  did  not 
brood,  nor  indeed  appear  to  worry  greatly.  She  was 
quickly  allied  with  clubdom  and  petty  politics  and  was 
busy.  Her  husband,  trying  to  interest  himself  in  stray 
free  lectures  at  the  University  and  in  the  second  hand 
bookstores,  grew  rather  pallid  and  thin. 

They  stopped  at  an  inexpensive  boarding  house  on  the 
West  Side.  It  was  a  place  of  adequate  food,  adequate 
cleanliness  and  no  grace.  Mrs.  Thorstad's  reputation  as 
a  prominent  club  woman  stood  her  in  good  stead  in  these 
rather  constricted  surroundings  where  most  of  the  guests 
were  men  of  sapped  masculinity,  high  busted  women 
dividing  their  time  between  small  shopping  and  moving 
pictures.  The  men  were  persons  of  petty  importance  and 
men  of  small  independence,  but  there  was  one  strangely 
incongruous  person  in  the  company.    He  was  the  editor  of 

259 


260  Spellbinders 

the  scandal  paper  of  the  city,  a  thin,  elderly,  eye-glassed 
person  of  fifty,  who  had  maintained,  in  spite  of  his  scav- 
enging for  scandals,  some  strange  insistence  on  and  de- 
light in  his  own  respectability.  He  was  personally  so 
polite,  so  gentlemanly,  so  apparently  innocuous  that  it  was 
almost  incredible  to  think  of  him  as  the  editor  of  the  sheet 
which  sold  itself  so  completely  on  the  strength  of  its  scan- 
dal that  it  needed  no  advertising  to  float  its  circulation. 

There  was  a  natural  attraction  between  him  and  Ade- 
line Thorstad.  They  had  mutually  a  flare  for  politics 
and  intense  personal  prejudices  complicating  that  instinc- 
tive liking.  They  often  ran  upon  the  same  moral  catch 
words  in  their  conversation.  Robinson  began  to  be  a 
"booster"  for  Mrs.  Thorstad.  He  saw  her  political  pos- 
sibilities and  commenced  to  call  attention  to  her  here 
and  there  in  his  columns. 

It  was  one  of  Mr.  Thorstad's  few  occasions  of  protest. 

"Shall  you  tell  him  to  keep  your  name  out  of  his  paper 
or  shall  I?" 

"But  he's  said  nothing  that  isn't  awfully  friendly, 
Eric.  I  hate  to  hurt  his  feelings.  I'm  sure  he  meant  to 
be  kind." 

"You  don't  want  to  be  featured  in  The  Town  Re- 
porter,' Adeline.    It  doesn't — it  isn't  right." 

She  let  the  stubborn  lines  settle  over  her  face. 

"I  don't  think  the  Town  Reporter'  is  as  corrupt  as 
almost  any  of  the  others." 

"Look  at  the  stuff  it  prints!" 

"But,  my  dear,  if  it's  true,  isn't  there  a  kind  of  courage 
in  printing  it?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  exasperation,  measuring  her  and 
his  own  futility. 

"So  you  want  to  let  that  go?" 

"I  think  it's  better  not  to  hurt  him,  Eric." 

He  shut  the  door  of  their  room  sharply  and  yet  when 


Walter's  Solution  261 

she  saw  him  again  he  had  regained  his  quiet  indifference 
to  her  doings.  The  friendship  between  her  and  the 
editor  continued  to  flourish. 

They  were  in  the  dining-room  on  Tuesday,  the  third 
of  August,  when  the  morning  papers  were  brought  in. 
It  was  a  sticky,  hot,  lifeless  morning.  Halves  of  grape- 
fruit tipped  wearily  on  the  warmish  plates.  No  one 
spoke  much.  The  head  of  the  silk  department  in  Green's 
was  hurrying  through  his  breakfast  in  order  to  get  down 
to  inspect  the  window  trim.  The  stenographer  at  Bailey 
and  Marshall's  had  slipped  into  her  place.  Mrs.  Thorstad 
was  alert  determinedly,  Mr.  Thorstad  sagging  a  little 
beside  her.  Robinson  picked  up  his  paper  first,  casually, 
and  uttered  a  low  whistle. 

"That's  a  bit  of  news,"  he  said. 

Several  people  craned  and  reached  for  the  papers  they 
had  been  too  indolent  to  open.  A  headline  ran  across 
the  page. 

PROMINENT  CLUBMAN  KILLS  HIMSELF  IN 
FASHIONABLE   CLUB 

WALTER   GRANGE    CARPENTER,    CAPITALIST,    SHOOTS   SELF 

FATALLY  IN  EARLY  MORNING  HOURS.      CAUSE 

OF   SUICIDE    MYSTERY. 

They  gathered  around  the  news  without  a  particle  of 
sympathy.  No  one  cared.  He  was  a  mystery  and  sen- 
sation— that  was  all. 

"Funny  thing,"  said  Robinson.  "I  wonder  what  was 
at  the  bottom  of  that." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  was  the  Dufneld  girl," 
Mrs.  Thorstad  said  rather  casually. 

"Who  was  that?" 


262  Spellbinders 

"You  know — the  political  organizer  who  was  sent  here 
for  the  Republican  women." 

"Was  Carpenter  in  love  with  her?" 

"I  think  so.  I  saw  him — well,  perhaps  I  shouldn't 
say—" 

Robinson  gave  her  a  keen  glance  and  let  the  matter 
drop.  But  that  night  after  dinner  he  sought  her  out 
again,  segregating  her  from  the  rest  of  the  people.  Mr. 
Thorstad  was  not  there. 

"What  was  it  you  were  saying  about  that  Miss  Duf- 
field?" 

She  hedged  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  to  talk  scandal,  Mr.  Robinson.  I'm 
no  gossip.  I  never  liked  the  woman.  I  always  believed 
she  made  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  I  know  she  was 
not  a  good  influence  on  my  daughter.  But  I  have  no 
wish  to  malign  her.  If  she  is  responsible  for  this  tragedy, 
she  and  her  free  love  doctrines  have  indeed  wrought 
havoc — " 

She  paused  abruptly. 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  you  know,"  said  Robinson. 
"I'll  confide  in  you,  Mrs.  Thorstad.  I  heard  from  a 
certain  source  to-day  that  Carpenter  left  this  Dufifield 
women  everything  he  possessed.  Every  one  seems  to 
know  they  were  seen  around  town  constantly  until  she 
went  away.  There  seems  to  have  been  considerable 
expectation  that  they  would  marry — surprise  that  they 
did  not.  Well — you  can  see  that  any  information 
added—" 

"But  what  good  would  it  do?"  She  pressed  him,  her 
utilitarian  little  mind  anxious  for  results. 

"I'd  rather  like  to  know  why  Carpenter  shot  himself. 
So  would  other  people.  If  this  woman  is  a  menace  she 
should  be  exposed." 


Walter's  Solution  263 

"She  should  indeed.  An  interloper,  making  trouble, 
trying  to  run  politics — " 

He  surveyed  her  amusedly,  familiar  with  outbreaks  of 
spite,  waiting  for  his  point  to  win  itself. 

"You  knew  her  well." 

"I  worked  with  her  closely.  A  brilliant  person — 
clever,  modern.  Modern  in  the  way  that  these  Eastern 
young  women  are  modern.  I  did  not  approve  of  many 
things  she  did.  I  did  not  approve  of  some  of  the  things 
she  said.  Then  there  was  an  incident  which  convinced 
me. 

She  went  on,  a  little  deft  prodding  keeping  her  in 
motion,  telling  the  story  of  having  seen  Walter  Car- 
penter come  to  Margaret's  room  and  of  having  seen  the 
letter  from  Gregory  with  its  protestation  that  he  must 
see  her,  that  he  wanted  "to  unloose  her  emotions — not 
fetter  her  in  marriage."  How  those  words  had  imprinted 
themselves  on  Mrs.  Thorstad's  mind!  There  was  great 
satisfaction  in  Robinson's  face. 

"And  this  Gregory?" 

She  had  thought  that  out  too. 

"Why  it  must  have  been  that  Gregory  Macmillan.  He 
came  here  later  and  she  talked  of  knowing  him.  I  heard 
Mrs.  Flandon  speak  of  it." 

"Ah,  the  Sinn  Feiner !    Why,  it's  perfect." 

She  had  a  moment  of  fearful  doubt. 

"You  wouldn't  quote  me?     There'd  be  no  libel — ?" 

"My  dear  lady,  I've  no  money  to  spend  on  libel  suits. 
I'll  never  get  mixed  up  in  one.  Every  bit  of  my  stuff 
is  looked  over  by  a  lawyer  before  it  sees  the  light  of 
print.  Don't  you  worry.  I'd  never  implicate  a  lady. 
Scourging  a  vampire" — he  fell  into  his  grandiloquent 
press  language  again — "is  an  entirely  different  matter." 

"There's  such  a  thing  as  justice,"  said  Mrs.  Thorstad 
bridling. 


264  Spellbinders 

He  nodded  with  gravity.  They  might  have  been,  from 
their  appearance,  two  kindly  middle-aged  persons  discus- 
sing a  kindly  principle,  so  well  did  their  faces  deceive 
their  minds. 

So  it  happened  that  the  next  issue  of  the  "Town  Re- 
porter" carried  in  its  headlines  on  the  following  day — 

WAS  MYSTERY  OF  SUICIDE  OF  RICH  CLUBMAN  ENTANGLED 
IN  FREE  LOVE  PROBLEM? 

There  followed  an  article  of  subtle  insinuation  written 
by  the  hand  of  an  adept.  It  crept  around  the  edge  of 
libel,  telling  only  the  facts  that  every  one  knew,  but  in 
such  proximity  that  the  train  of  thought  must  be  com- 
plete— that  one  who  knew  anything  of  the  people  impli- 
cated could  see  that  Margaret  Duffield  (never  named) 
believer  in  all  "doctrines  of  free  madness"  had  "perhaps 
preyed  upon  the  soul  of  the  man."  And  then  after  a 
little  the  "Sinn  Feiner"  came  into  the  article,  he  too 
coming  from  groups  who  knew  no  "law  but  license." 
Ugly  intrigue — all  of  it — dragging  its  stain  across  the 
corpse  of  Walter  Carpenter. 

The  news  had  come  to  the  Flandons  at  breakfast  too. 
Gage  had  come  down  first  and  picked  up  the  newspaper 
While  he  was  waiting  for  Helen  and  the  children.  He 
read  it  at  a  glance  and  the  blow  made  him  a  little  dizzy. 
Like  a  flood  there  came  over  him  the  quick  sense  of  the 
utter  blackness  of  Walter's  mind — more  than  any  sense 
of  loss  or  pity  came  horror  at  the  baffled  intellect  which 
had  caused  the  tragedy.  He  stood,  reading,  moistening 
his  lips  as  Helen  entered  and  lifted  the  children  to  their 
chairs. 

"Any  news,  Gage?" 

He  handed  it  to  her  silently. 


Walter's  Solution  265 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  Helen,  "How  terrible!  How 
awful,  Gage!" 

He  nodded  and  sat  down  in  his  chair,  putting  his  head 
in  his  hands.    She  read  the  article  through. 

"But  why,  do  you  suppose?" 

Then  she  stopped,  knowing  the  thought  that  must  have 
come  to  him  as  it  came  to  her. 

"Poor,  poor  Walter!" 

She  went  around  the  table  to  Gage. 

"You'll  go  down  of  course,  but  take  a  cup  of  coffee 
first,"  she  said,  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

He  roused  himself. 

"All  right." 

Some  one  telephoned  for  Gage  and  he  said  he  would 
come  at  once  to  the  club.  They  went  on  with  the  form 
of  breakfast.  The  children  chattered.  The  room  shone 
with  sunlight.  Helen,  through  her  shock  and  grief, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  shrinking  of  their  trouble  against 
this  terrific  final  snuffing  out  of  life.  Abashed  at  the 
comfort  it  gave  her,  she  drew  away  from  the  thought. 

But  it  made  her  tender  to  Gage.  It  kept  persisting, 
that  thought.  "It  wasn't  Gage.  It  might  have  been 
Gage.  It  might  have  been  us.  People  like  us  do  go  that 
far  then.  How  horribly  selfish  this  is.  Poor  Walter  !* 
She  suddenly  stopped  short.  She  must  telegraph  Mar- 
garet. Margaret  would  have  to  know.  Whatever  there 
had  been  between  her  and  Carpenter,  she  must  know. 
Doubtless — perhaps — she  would  want  to  come  to  see 
him —    Or  would  she? 

She  telegraphed  Margaret  as  compassionately  as  pos- 
sible. Yet  it  seemed  a  little  absurd  to  be  too  compas- 
sionate. Margaret  wouldn't  like  the  shock  "broken." 
She  would  want  to  know  the  facts. 

The  sun  seemed  brighter  than  it  had  been  for  days. 
Despite  the  grave  weight  of  sorrow  on  her  spirit,  Helen 


266  Spellbinders 

was  calmed,  attended  by  peace.  She  was  feeling  the  vast 
relief  attendant  on  becoming  absorbed  in  a  trouble  not 
her  own.  It  was  not  that  her  grief  was  not  deep  for 
Carpenter.  He  had  been  Gage's  good  friend  and  hers. 
And  yet — it  was  almost  as  if  in  dying  he  had  deflected 
a  tragedy  from  her,  as  if  he  had  bought  immunity  for 
her  with  his  terrific  price.  She  dared  not  tamper  with 
the  thought  of  what  this  might  do  to  Gage. 

The  mail  man  in  his  blue  coat  was  coming  up  the 
steps.  She  opened  the  door  for  him,  anxious  to  do  some- 
thing, wondering  if  there  would  be  a  letter  from  Mar- 
garet. There  was.  She  laid  the  others  aside  and  read 
that  first.  It  was  a  long  letter  full  of  thought,  which  at 
another  time  would  have  been  interesting.  Margaret  had 
wearied  of  Republicanism.  She  and  many  other  women 
were  talking  of  the  "League"  again. 

And  Walter  Carpenter  lay  dead.     Was  it  relevant  ? 

Helen  put  down  the  letter  and  looked  through  her 
others.  There  was  one  from  some  hotel  in  Montana. 
She  ripped  it  open  and  the  first  words  startled  her  so  that 
she  looked  for  the  signature.  It  was  signed  by  Freda 
Thorstad. 

A  swooning  excitement  came  over  Helen.  She  hardly 
dared  read  it.  Then,  holding  it  crushed  tightly,  she 
went  up  to  her  own  room.  As  she  went  the  children  called 
to  her.  They  wanted  her  to  come  and  see  the  castle  in 
the  sandbox. 

"Soon,"  she  called  to  them,  "I'll  be  down  soon. 
Mother's  busy — don't  call  me  for  a  few  minutes." 

She  locked  her  door  and  read  the  letter.  What  had 
startled  her  was  that  abrupt  beginning  "Asking  for  money 
is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world — at  least  nothing  has 
ever  been  so  hard  before."  It  went  on  "But  I  don't 
know  what  else  to  do,  and  I  must  do  something.  I  can't 
write  any  one  else,  partly  because  no  one  else  I  know  has 


Walter's  Solution  267 

enough  money  to  send  me  and  also  because  I  haven't 
told  any  one  except  your  husband  about  myself — and  I 
suppose  he  has  told  you.  If  he  hasn't  he'll  tell  you  now 
that  it  is  the  truth.  It's  this  way.  My  husband  has  been 
terribly  sick  and  what  money  he  had  was  stolen  while  he 
was  at  the  hotel  before  I  got  here.  He's  still  weak  and  of 
course  he  wants  to  go  home.  But  I  haven't  dared  tell 
him  we  haven't  any  money  because  he  doesn't  know  the 
maid  picked  his  pockets  while  he  was  ill.  We  have  to 
get  away  from  the  hospital  now  that  he's  well  enough 
to  travel — we  don't  know  anybody  in  the  city  and  there 
are  his  hospital  bills  to  pay.  The  doctor  told  me  he 
would  wait,  but  I  can't  ask  the  nurses  to  do  that.  It 
seems  almost  ridiculous  for  an  able  bodied  person  to  be 
asking  for  money  but  we  owe  so  much  more  than  I  can 
earn  that  I  must  borrow.  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any 
way  to  get  money  sometimes  except  by  borrowing.  I 
know  I  could  pay  it  back  as  soon  as  Gregory  gets  well 
again.  I  suppose  you'll  wonder  why  I  don't  ask  father. 
Well — he  hasn't  as  much  money  as  we  need.  We  need 
nearly  six  hundred  dollars  to  take  Gregory  to  Ireland 
and  pay  the  bills  here.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  get 
it  from  Gregory's  friends  in  Ireland.  But  I  know  from 
what  he's  told  me  that  they  all  are  trying  so  hard  to  do 
things  for  the  country  with  what  little  money  they  have 
that  it  would  worry  him  to  ask  them.  And  it  would 
take  too  long.  He  mustn't  be  worried,  the  doctors  say, 
and  he  must  get  back  to  his  home  soon.  You  know 
something  about  him  for  I  remember  that  I  saw  you  at 
his  lecture.  He  is  really  very  wonderful  and  ...  It 
isn't  as  if  I  had  a  right  to  ask  you  either,  except  perhaps 
a  kind  of  human  right.  .  .  .  You've  been  so  kind  to 
me,  you  and  Mr.  Flandon.  ..." 

Helen  finished  the  letter  with  a  rueful,  very  tired  smile. 
Then  she  took  it  into  Gage's  room  and  laid  it  on  his 


268  Spellbinders 

bureau  where  he  would  see  it,  when  he  came  in.  He 
telephoned  at  noon  to  tell  her  that  he  was  coming  out; 
she  kept  out  of  the  way  so  that  he  would  read  the  letter 
before  she  saw  him. 

He  brought  it  to  her  and  gave  it  back,  folded. 

"I  suppose  I  should  have  told  you  that  business  but  it 
was  the  girl's  secret.  She  didn't  want  it  known  and  I 
stumbled  on  it" 

"I  see,"  she  answered,  inadequately. 

"Looks  like  a  bad  situation  for  them,  doesn't  it?  I 
didn't  know,  by  the  way,  where  she  had  gone.  I  assumed 
she  had  gone  to  join  him  but  I  did  think  Sable  had 
driven  her  to  do  it.     Evidently  he  sent  for  her." 

"And  he  nearly  died." 

They  paused  in  embarrassment.  Helen  held  herself 
tautly. 

"There's  an  apology  due  you,"  she  began. 

He  held  his  hand  out,  deprecating  it. 

"No,  please — you  had  every  reason."  He  changed  the 
subject  abruptly. 

"Do  we  let  her  have  the  money?"  He  smiled  for  a 
minute.  "Money's  tight  as  hell.  I  haven't  got  much 
in  cash  you  know.  But  I  don't  see  how  we  can  refuse 
the  girl." 

"We  won't,"  said  Helen. 

"By  the  way,  what  I  came  out  to  say  was  that  Walter's 
lawyer  thinks  we  should  send  for  Margaret  Duffield. 
There's  a  rumor  that  she  is  his  legatee.  He  had  no 
family — his  mother  died  last  year.  From  what  Pratt 
said  he  left  it  all  to  Margaret.     She'll  be  rich." 

"I  did  wire  her,"  answered  Helen,  "an  hour  ago.  I 
thought  she  ought  to  know." 

"That's  good." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"It  was  all  in  the  paper.     He  shot  himself  a  little  after 


Walter's  Solution  269 

midnight.  He  was  alone  in  his  room.  It  was  evidently 
quite  premeditated.  There  was  a  sealed  letter  for  his 
lawyer  with  instructions.undoubtedly  and  everything  was 
in  perfect  order.  He — he  had  simply  decided  to  do  it. 
And  he  has  done  it.  Something  made  him  lie  down — 
that's  all." 

He  spoke  reflectively,  with  a  degree  of  abstraction  that 
was  surprising. 

"Why  do  they  think  he  did  it?" 

"Heat — not  well  physically.  That's  what  goes  to  the 
papers.  Better  spread  that.  If  the  girl  is  involved,  we'll 
keep  her  name  clear." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"For  Walter's  sake,"  Gage  went  on.  And  then  very 
slowly,  he  added,  "I  wouldn't  like  people  to  know  that 
she  got  him." 

"Yet  if  it  comes  out  that  he  left  her  everything,  won't 
people  guess?" 

"They  won't  know.  Nor  do  we  know.  Nobody 
knows  except  Walter  and  he's  dead." 

They  sent  a  second  wire  to  Margaret  requesting  her 
presence  for  urgent  reasons  and  by  night  they  had  heard 
that  she  would  come.     The  funeral  was  to  be  on  Friday. 

It  was  Thursday  evening  when  the  "Town  Reporter" 
bristled  with  ugly  headlines  on  the  streets  of  St.  Pierre. 
Walter's  body  lay  in  the  undertaking  "parlors"  those 
ineffective  substitutes  for  homes  for  those  who  die  home- 
less, in  the  brief  period  between  their  last  hours  among 
human  kind  and  the  grave.  No  place  except  a  home  can 
indeed  truly  shelter  the  dead.  Walter  lay  inscrutably 
lonely,  in  the  public  parlor,  mysterious  in  the  death  which 
was  a  refusal  to  go  on  with  life,  a  relinquishment  so 
brave  and  so  cowardly  that  it  always  shocks  observers  into 
awe.  As  he  lay  there,  a  raucous  voiced  newsboy  outside 
the  window  ran  down  toward  the  main  through  fare,  a 


270  Spellbinders 

bunch  of  "Town  Reporters"  under  his  arm,  shouting,  "All 
the  noos  about  the  sooicide" — and  in  half  an  hour  his 
papers  were  gone,  some  bought  openly,  some  bought 
hurriedly  and  shamefacedly.  Hundreds  of  people  now 
knew  the  reason  Elihu  Robinson  gave  for  the  death  of 
Walter  Carpenter,  his  version  of  the  struggle  in  the 
stilled  brain  of  the  man  he  had  not  known  except  by 
sight  and  hundreds  of  people  as  intimate  with  the  tragedy 
as  he,  wagged  their  heads  and  said  wisely  that  this  "was 
about  the  truth  of  it,"  with  other  and  sundry  comments 
on  the  corruption  of  the  age  and  particularly  of  the  rich. 

The  Flandons  read  it  with  mixed  disgust  and  anger. 
They  knew  it  was  the  kind  of  stain  that  only  time  could 
scrub  away.  It  did  not  matter  much  to  Walter  now  that 
he  was  slandered.  His  suicide  was  a  defiance  of  slander. 
They  were  sorry  for  Margaret  but  not  too  much  bothered 
by  her  reception  of  such  scandal  if  it  came  to  her.  It 
was  only  local  scandal. 

"The  worst  of  it,"  said  Helen  to  Gage,  "is  tying 
Gregory  Macmillan  up  that  way  just  as  they  were  about 
to  announce  his  marriage.  I  telephoned  Freda's  father 
this  afternoon  for  I  was  going  to  tell  him  you  had  had  a 
business  letter  from  her  and  knew  where  she  was.  It 
seemed  wise.  But  anyway  he  had  just  heard  from  her 
too.  He  was  so  happy,  poor  fellow.  Now  to  have  this 
nasty  scandal  about  his  son-in-law  will  be  another  blow. 
I  shall  go  to  see  him  and  tell  him  that  it's  an  utter  lie. 
I  know  from  what  Margaret  told  me  that  there  never 
was  a  thing  between  her  and  Macmillan." 

Mr.  Thorstad  had  already  taken  the  matter  up  with 
Elihu  Robinson.  He  had  called  him  what  he  was  and  his 
white  faced  indignation  was  something  the  editor  pre- 
ferred to  submit  to  without  resistance.  But  he  was  not 
without  trumps  as  usual. 


Walter's  Solution  271 

"But  who  is  your  authority  for  saying  that  Macmillan 
was  implicated  with  this  lady?"  asked  Mr.  Thorstad, 
angrily. 

He  had  not  told  that  Macmillan  was  his  son-in-law  and 
the  editor  wondered  at  his  defense  of  Macmillan. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said  with  that  touch  of  apologetic 
and  righteous  concern  with  which  he  always  met  such 
attacks.     "My  dear  fellow,  your  wife  told  me  that." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   MOURNERS 

MARGARET  came,  calm  and  yet  clearly  distressed 
beyond  measure.  It  was  pathetic  to  see  her  con- 
trol, to  see  that  she  could  not  even  break  through  it  to 
the  relief  of  abandonment.  She  was  very  white  during 
the  day  of  the  funeral  and  the  ones  succeeding  it  and  her 
eyes  met  other  eyes  somewhat  reluctantly.  She  came  on 
Friday  morning  and  Helen  had  not  been  able  to  persuade 
her  to  stay  with  them.  She  had  gone  to  a  hotel  and  from 
there,  quite  simply  to  the  parlors  of  the  undertakers. 

"Don't  wait  for  me,  Helen — and  I'd  sooner  be  alone. 
I'll  be  here  a  long  while,  probably." 

Perhaps  after  all  Walter  and  Margaret  found  relief 
in  each  other  when  the  grim  parlor  door  was  shut.  At 
least  at  the  funeral  Margaret  sat  very  quietly,  though  the 
well-bred  curious  eyes  of  the  little  group  of  people  strayed 
unceasingly  toward  her.  She  went  through  it  as  she 
went  through  the  following  days.  It  was  soon  known, 
before  the  will  was  probated,  that  she  was  Walter's 
legatee.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  business  to  be  done. 
Walter  had  decided  no  doubt  that  the  brief  embarrass- 
ment of  inheriting  his  fortune  was  better  than  the  re- 
current fear  of  cramping  poverty  which  had  always  pur- 
sued her  and  of  which  she  had  told  him.  She  saw  the 
lawyers  and  his  business  associates  and  discussed  with 
them  the  best  way  of  disposing  of  Walter's  interests,  and 
word  of  her  coldness  spread  around  rather  quickly  and 
was  considered  to  justify  Mr.  Robinson's  deductions. 

Gage  saw  her  at  the  funeral.    He  had  not  looked  for 

272 


The  Mourners  273 

her — had  not  felt  ready  to  see  her.  But  in  the  semicircle 
of  chairs  facing  the  gray  satin  coffin,  he  was  so  placed 
that  his  eyes  met  hers  unexpectedly.  When  they  did, 
hostility  glinted  in  his.  "You  got  him,"  they  seemed  to 
say — and  hers  looked  back  steady,  unrepentant,  even 
though  her  mouth  was  drawn  with  pain  and  sorrow. 

It  had  hit  Gage  as  it  had  Helen.  The  lightning  had 
been  drawn  from  him.  Walter's  death  had  roused  in 
him  an  instinct  of  resistance  which  had  been  dormant. 
He  had  no  certain  idea  of  what  had  passed  between 
Walter  and  Margaret  but  he  knew  what  Carpenter's  point 
of  view  had  been — how  far  he  had  gone,  how  willing  he 
had  been  to  yield  every  concession  to  a  woman — to  Mar- 
garet— in  the  belief  that  it  would  then  be  possible  to 
build  love  on  a  basis  of  comradeship.  Walter  had  found 
failure,  just  how  or  why  no  one  knew  except  perhaps 
Margaret  herself.  Gage's  mind  stumbled  along  nerv- 
ously, trying  to  analyze  his  and  Walter's  failure.  He 
remembered  how  they  had  talked  together  about  women, 
how  Walter  had  said  he  would  be  "willing  to  trust  to 
their  terms."  For  some  reason  he  lay  dead  of  their 
terms.  And  he  himself — he  had  looked  at  himself  in 
the  glass  an  hour  ago  with  a  kind  of  horror  as  if  he 
saw  himself  for  the  first  time  in  weeks.  There  was  a 
softening  of  his  features  it  seemed  to  him,  a  look  of  dis- 
sipation, of  untrimmed  thought,  brooding.  The  memory 
of  his  face  haunted  him.  That  was  what  came  of  being 
unwilling  to  trust  to  the  terms  of  women.    Either  way — 

He  looked  across  at  Margaret  again,  quiet,  firm,  per- 
sistent through  tragedy,  through  all  emotional  upheaval, 
and  a  grim  admiration  shot  through  his  hostility.  After 
all  she  was  consistent.  With  all  his  admiration  for 
women,  even  at  the  height  of  his  passion  for  Helen,  he 
had  never  connected  her  or  any  woman  with  ability  to 
follow  a  line  of  action  with  such  consistency.    He  had 


274  Spellbinders 

some  sense  of  what  was  going  on  in  Margaret's  mind — 
an  apperception  of  her  refusal  to  let  this  tragedy  break 
her  down. 

He  became  conscious  of  Helen's  sigh.  She  sat  beside 
him,  her  hands  folded  loosely  in  her  lap.  The  minister 
talked  on,  performing  with  decent  civility  and  entangle- 
ment of  phrase,  the  rites  of  last  courtesy  for  the  dead. 
Gage  wondered  what  he  and  Helen  would  do.  He  was 
glad  that  the  mess  about  Freda  Thorstad  was  cleared 
up.  Not  that  it  made  any  grave  difference  except  in  a 
certain  clearness  of  atmosphere.  If  she  got  a  divorce  she 
couldn't  get  it  on  those  grounds.  He  wondered  how  their 
painfully  sore  minds  could  be  explained  in  a  divorce  court 
which  was  accustomed  to  dealing  with  brutal  incidents. 
Perhaps  a  separation  would  be  better.  He  wondered  how 
he  was  going  to  provide  for  her  decently.  It  was  going 
to  be  a  long  job  building  up  the  new  practice.  Things 
were  breaking  badly. 

Some  emphatic  phrase  of  the  minister,  starting  out  of 
his  droning  talk,  brought  Gage's  eyes  back  to  the  coffin. 
Strange  how  the  sense  of  that  silent  form  within  it  gave 
him  fresh  energy.  Life  had  got  Walter.  Women  had 
got  him,  in  some  obscure  way.  He  felt  his  shoulders 
straighten  with  stubborn  impulse.  They  wouldn't  get 
him.  Deftly  and  logically  his  thought  became  practical. 
He  would  cut  out  all  this  thinking  about  women.  He 
would — perhaps  he  would  get  the  Thornton  business.  It 
meant  a  big  retainer.  He  could  have  done  it  a  few  months 
ago.  Now — he  visualized  old  Thornton's  tight  mouth, 
keen  eyes.  He'd  want  value  received.  Have  to  get  in 
shape — cut  out  the  booze — concentrate  on  business — • 
men's  business.  The  actual  phrase  took  shape  in  his 
mind.  Men's  business.  By  God,  that  was  how  women 
got  you.  They  got  you  thinking  about  them  until  you 
became  obsessed,  obsessed  with  them  and  their  business. 


The  Mourners  275 

It  was  so  and  it  had  always  been  so.  These  new  prob- 
lems were  not  what  people  thought  they  were.  They 
were  not  sex  stuff.  Perhaps  they  altered  the  grain  of 
woman — changed  her — but  the  adjustment  of  sex  was  as 
it  always  had  been,  between  each  man  and  each  woman. 
Let  the  women  go  on,  be  what  they  wanted,  do  what  they 
wanted.  It  made  some  of  them  better,  some  of  them 
worse — put  new  figures  in  the  dance  but  it  was  the  same 
dance.  Even  if  it  wasn't  the  minuet  or  the  waltz  there 
was  still  dancing.    And  there  was  choosing  of  partners. 

Every  one  stood  up.  Gage  was  standing  too,  with  the 
rest,  his  vagrant  thoughts  brought  back  from  their  wan- 
derings to  the  ever  shocking  realization  that  he  was  help- 
ing in  the  laying  away  of  this  friend  of  his  and  the  in- 
evitable feeling  that  life  was  a  short  business  for  him  and 
every  one.  He  fell  back  into  triteness.  You  must  play 
the  game. 

After  it  was  all  over  he  was  standing  beside  Helen. 

"I  want  to  go  to  see  Margaret,"  said  Helen.  "I'll  go 
to  her  hotel  now,  Gage." 

"Bring  her  home  if  you  like,"  answered  Gage. 

The  ease  of  his  tone  startled  Helen.  She  looked  at 
him  in  quick  surprise,  meeting  his  unexpected  smile. 

"I  merely  meant  I  thought  I  could  be  reasonably  civil,"' 
he  said — and  with  impulse,  "I  feel  rather  cleaned  out,, 
Helen.  I'll  run  down  town  now  and  see  what  I  can  do 
before  dinner." 

She  thought,  "He  hasn't  had  anything  to  drink  for  two 
days,"  placing  the  responsibility  for  his  unwonted  pleas- 
antness on  a  practical  basis.  It  cheered  her.  She  went  to 
Margaret's  hotel  and  found  her  in  her  room,  lying  on  her 
bed  and  her  head  buried  in  the  counterpane.  It  was  the 
nearest  to  abandonment  that  Helen  had  ever  seen  in  her 
friend  so  she  ventured  to  try  to  comfort. 

"It's  the  awful  blackness  of  his  mind  that  I  can't  bear," 


276  Spellbinders 

said  Margaret,  "the  feeling  he  must  have  had  that  there 
was  no  way  out."  She  sat  up  and  looked  at  Helen 
somewhat  wildly.  "It  frightens  me  too.  For  he  had 
such  a  good  mind.  He  saw  things  straight.  Perhaps 
there  isn't  any  way  out.  Perhaps  we  are  battering  our 
heads  against  life  and  each  other  like  helpless  fools." 

"Did  you  love  him?"  asked  Helen.  It  seemed  to  her 
the  only  vital  point  just  then. 

Margaret  threw  her  hands  out  futilely. 

"I  don't  know.  I  was  afraid  of  what  might  happen 
if  we  married.  Either  way  it  looked  too  dangerous.  I 
was  afraid  of  softening  too  much — of  lapsing  into  too 
much  caring — or  of  not  being  able  to  care  at  all.  He 
wasn't  afraid — but  I  was.  And — the  rotten  part  is, 
Helen,  that  I  wasn't  afraid  for  him  but  for  myself." 

She  was  hushed  for  a  moment  and  then  broke  out 
again. 

"It  wasn't  for  myself  as  myself.  It  was  just  that  if 
our  marriage  hadn't  been  a  miracle  of  success,  it  would 
have  proved  the  case  against  women  again." 

"You  mustn't  think  any  more  than  you  can  help,"  said 
Helen.  "It  wasn't  like  Walter  to  want  to  cause  you  pain 
and  I  know  he  wouldn't  want  you  to  suffer  now." 

"No,  he  was  willing  to  do  all  the  suffering,"  said  Mar- 
garet in  bitter  self-mockery.     "He  did  it  too." 

She  got  hold  of  herself  by  one  swift  motion  of  her 
well-controlled  mind  and  stood  up,  brushing  her  hair 
back  with  the  gesture  Walter  loved.  "It's  not  your 
burden,  poor  girl.    You  have  enough." 

"Not  so  many,"  said  Helen.  "By  the  way,  Margaret, 
you  haven't  heard  about  Freda  Thorstad,  have  you?" 

"Did  she  come  back?" 

"No — she  wrote.  She  had  married  Gregory  Mac- 
millan  secretly  when  he  was  here.    They  sent  her  word 


The  Mourners  277 

that  he  had  typhoid  out  West  and  she  went  to  him. 
Why  she  didn't  tell  people  is  still  a  mystery." 

"Married  him — Gregory?  But  she'd  only  known  him 
four  days." 

Helen  nodded.  "That's  just  it  Isn't  it — "  she 
stopped,  fearing  to  wound. 

"Magnificent — brave — foolish — "  finished  Margaret. 
Her  voice  broke  unaccustomedly.  "It's  wonderful. 
Gregory  will  be  a  strange  husband  but  if  she  shares  him 
with  Ireland  and — oh,  it's  rather  perfect.  And  so  all 
that  nonsense  about  Gage  being  involved — " 

"Was  nonsense." 

'Margaret  did  not  ask  further  about  Gage.  She  re- 
verted to  Freda  and  Gregory.  The  news  left  her  mar- 
veling, an  envy  that  was  wonder  in  her  remarks.  She 
made  no  comparisons  between  Freda  and  herself  and  yet 
it  was  clear  that  Freda  wrought  herself  to  another  phase 
— a  step  on  towards  some  solution  of  thought. 

Helen  urged  her  to  come  to  dinner. 

"I'd  rather  not,  I  think.     I'll  have  a  rest  perhaps." 

"Then  you'll  go  out  with  us  for  a  ride  to-night?" 

"Gage  wouldn't  like  it,  would  he?" 

"He  suggested  your  coming  to  dinner,  my  dear." 

They  smiled  at  each  other. 

"Then  I'll  go."  She  turned  swiftly  to  Helen,  "Oh, 
work  it  out  if  you  can,  Helen.  Not  working  it  out — is 
horrible." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

RESPITE 

FREDA  was  trying  to  mend  a  blouse.  Her  unskillful 
fingers  pricked  themselves  and  it  was  obvious  that 
even  her  laborious  efforts  could  do  little  to  make  the 
waist  presentable.  Its  frayed  cuffs  were  beyond  repair- 
ing. However,  it  would  do  until  they  got  to  Mohawk 
and  she  could  get  the  clothes  which  she  had  there.  She 
had  not  written  her  mother  to  send  her  anything.  Nor 
had  she  spent  any  of  the  money  the  Flandons  had  sent 
for  such  luxuries  as  new  clothes.  She  had  been  uplifted 
when  that  check  for  a  thousand  dollars — not  for  six 
hundred — had  slipped  out  of  the  envelope  with  Mrs. 
Flandon's  kind,  congratulatory  letter.  Gregory's  three 
hundred  had  been  put  back  in  his  purse  and  then,  as  it 
gradually  came  over  her  impractical  mind  that  such  a  sum 
was  totally  inadequate  to  their  need  she  had  told  him 
that  she  had  some  money  of  her  own — a  little  reserve 
which  had  been  sent  to  her.  Naturally  he  had  assumed 
her  father  had  sent  it  and  later  she  thought  she  would 
tell  him  that  it  was  a  debt  they  had  assumed  and  make 
arrangements  for  paying  it.  Not  now.  He  must  not 
worry  now  about  the  money.  She  looked  across  the 
room  at  him — their  shabby  little  hotel  room,  with  its  lace 
curtains  pinned  back  for  air  and  the  shaky  table  desk 
dragged  up  before  the  window.  He  had  not  been  quite 
fit  enough  to  travel  when  they  left  the  hospital,  and  she 
had  insisted  that  he  must  try  his  strength  before  they 
made  the  journey  to  Mohawk,  the  first  lap  on  the  way 
back  to  Ireland.    How  eager  he  was  to  be  off  now — how 

278 


Respite  279 

impossible  it  was  to  check  him!  She  forgot  the  blouse 
and  sat  looking  at  him,  sitting  there  unconscious  of 
her  regard.  His  profile  was  outlined  against  the  blank 
window  opening,  still  so  thin,  and  yet  so  restored. 

"It's  getting  dark.  You  ought  to  stop  now,  Gregory. 
You'll  be  worn  out." 

He  did  not  hear  her.  That  was  one  of  the  things  she 
had  found  out  could  happen.  Especially  since  this  lot 
of  mail  had  been  forwarded  from  his  bureau,  letters  full 
of  such  terrible  news  for  him  from  Ireland.  His  friends 
were  in  prison — were  killed.    Devastation  was  spreading. 

She  rose,  with  a  new  air  of  maturity  and  crossed  to 
him. 

"It's  growing  late."  This  time  she  came  behind  his 
chair  and  bent  her  cheek  to  his. 

He  moved  absently. 

"Yes,  sweetheart — I'll  be  soon  through.  I  was  writing 
to  Larry's  widow,  poor  girl.  There  seemed  so  much  to 
say." 

"I  know,  but  you  must  stop."  She  used  the  appeal 
she  had  already  learned  to  use  when  he  was  bound  to  tax 
his  fragile  strength.  "You'll  never  get  back  there  unless 
you  rest  more." 

"Oh,  yes  I  will.  And  when  I  do  get  back — how  I'm 
going  to  start  some  things  in  motion.  It  will  be  a  ter- 
rible swift  motion  too.    I've  lost  a  sad  amount  of  time." 

Freda  laughed  and  he  looked  at  her.  It  was  a  laugh 
of  pure  amusement,  and  so  contagious  that  he  joined 
her,  jumping  up  from  the  letter  to  kiss  her. 

MNo — you  laughing  rogue — not  time  lost  in  winning 
my  bride.    Mocker." 

Freda  held  him  at  arms  length  teasingly. 

"I  have  you  for  a  minute  now,  haven't  I?" 

"You  always  have  me.  You  don't  mind,  darling,  that 
they  need  me?    You  wouldn't — not  share  it  with  me?" 


280  Spellbinders 

"Of  course  I  share  it.  And  I  know  I  have  you — when 
you  remember  me." 

He  buried  his  lips  in  her  hair  and  then  drew  her  to 
his  knees. 

"Sweetheart,  if  you  could  know  how  they  suffer — 
when  you  see — " 

She  composed  herself  to  listen,  knowing  how  it  would 
be.  He  would  hold  her  close  like  this  and  tighter  and 
tighter  his  arms  would  feel  as  he  explained  and  related. 
Then,  in  his  excitement,  he  would  loose  her  and  leave 
her,  gently,  while  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  and 
forgot  the  tenants  in  the  next  room  and  herself  and 
everything  in  his  impassioned  oratory. 

So  he  was.  That  was  Gregory.  When  he  put  her 
down  she  turned  on  the  light  and  picked  up  her  sewing. 
It  was  not  that  she  did  not  listen  willingly.  She  did. 
If  she  could  not  kindle  in  his  flame  she  was  warmed  in 
the  glow  of  it.  She  too  had  come  to  care.  Perhaps  when 
they  reached  Ireland  and  she  saw  for  herself  she  would 
kindle  too — she  rather  hoped  so. 

He  stopped  talking  and  his  mind,  relaxed,  shot  back 
to  her. 

"Do  you  feel  well  to-night,  darling?" 

"Of  course.  I'm  the  most  indomitably  healthy  person 
you  ever  knew.    I  can't  help  it." 

"You're  so  sweetly  healthy  that  I  keep  forgetting  to 
take  care  of  you." 

She  tossed  the  blouse  from  her  restlessly  and  stretched 
her  long  arms  back  of  her  head  to  make  a  cushion. 

"It  doesn't  bother  me  when  you  forget,"  she  told  him. 
"I'm  very  glad  that  it  doesn't,  too.  I'm  glad  I  haven't 
begun  marriage  by  learning  habits  of  dependency.  I 
think  we're  rather  lucky,  Greg.  Being  us,  as  we  are, 
with  a  two  day  wedding  trip  and  a  crowning  episode 
of  typhoid  and  now  a  baby  and  an  Irish  question  ahead 


Respite  281 

of  us,  we've  learned  how  to  stand  alone.  Mind  our  own 
business  instead  of  crowding  into  each  other's,  you 
know." 

He  did  not  know.  A  great  deal  of  modern  difficulty 
and  problem  making  had  slipped  by  him.  "You  are  an 
obscure  young  person,"  he  told  her,  "and  most  divinely 
beautiful.  I  am  going  to  get  Francis  Hart  to  paint 
you — like  that,  with  your  head  thrown  back.  I  want  a 
hundred  paintings  of  you  just  to  compare  with  you,  so 
that  I  can  show  that  no  painting  can  be  as  lovely  as  you 
are." 

They  spent  a  week  in  Mohawk  and  because  Gregory 
found  that  Mr.  Thorstad  knew  Irish  history  with  un- 
expected profundity  and  sympathy  he  was  content  to 
spend  much  time  with  his  father-in-law.  They  met  on 
many  points,  in  the  simplicity  of  their  minds,  the  way 
they  wound  their  thoughts  around  simple  philosophies 
instead  of  allowing  the  skeins  of  thought  to  tangle — 
in  the  uncorrupted  and  untempted  goodness  of  them  both 
and  their  fine  appreciation  of  freedom — the  freedom 
which  in  Mr.  Thorstad  had  bade  his  daughter  seek  life 
and  in  Gregory  had  tried  to  unloose  the  rigors  of  Mar- 
garet Duffield.  Gregory  did  not  talk  so  much  to  Mrs. 
Thorstad.  He  was  apt,  in  the  midst  of  some  flight  of 
hers,  to  look  a  little  bewildered  and  then  become  inatten- 
tive. She,  however,  took  it  for  genius.  The  chastening 
which  she  had  suffered  after  that  mistake  of  blackening 
Gregory's  name  in  connection  with  Margaret  had  still 
some  effect.  She  was  anxious  to  wipe  that  error  out 
and  to  that  end  she  worked  very  hard  to  establish  the 
fame  and  name  of  Gregory.  His  books  were  spread  over 
the  library  table  and  she  had  already,  in  characteristic 
method,  started  a  book  of  clippings  about  him. 

She  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  with  Freda.    Freda  was 


282  Spellbinders 

rather  more  gentle  than  she  had  been,  and  interested 
honestly  in  many  of  the  details  of  child  bearing  that  her 
mother  dragged  up  from  her  memory  on  being  ques- 
tioned. If  Mrs.  Thorstad  felt  disappointment  in  Freda, 
she  tried  very  honestly  to  conceal  it  but  now  and  again 
there  cropped  out  an  involuntary  trace  of  the  superiority 
which  she  as  a  modern  woman  was  bound  to  feel  over  a 
daughter  who  took  so  little  interest  in  the  progress  of 
politics  and  listened  so  much  to  her  husband's  talk.  She 
spoke  of  it  once  only  and  most  tactfully. 

"You  must  be  careful  not  to  be  a  reactionary,  my  dear. 
You  are  going  from  the  land  of  freedom  and  the  land  in 
which  women  are  rising  to  every  dignity,  to  a  country 
which  may  be — of  course  is  bound  to  be — comparatively 
unenlightened.  I  hope  indeed  that  you  have  your  chil- 
dren. Two— or  even  three  children — are  very  desirable. 
But  you  must  not  forget  that  every  woman  owes  a  duty 
to  herself  in  development  and  in  keeping  abreast  of  the 
times  which  may  not  be  neglected.  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
you,  dear.  Of  course  I  myself  am  perhaps  a  little  excep- 
tional in  the  breadth  of  my  outlook.  But  it  is  not  per- 
sonal ambition.  It  is  for  the  sex.  Did  I  tell  you  that 
Mrs.  Flandon  talked  to  me  when  she  saw  me  in  St.  Pierre 
about  doing  much  of  the  state  organizing  for  the  Repub- 
lican women?  She  says  she  needs  some  of  my  organiz- 
ing ability.  I  shall  help  her  of  course.  In  fact  I  hope 
I  may  be  able  to  prevail  upon  your  father  to  apply  for 
a  position  at  the  University  in  St.  Pierre.  I  feel  we  have 
rather  outgrown  Mohawk." 

"But,  mother,  that  means  an  instructorship  again  for 
father,  and  it's  a  step  backward." 

"Not  exactly  that.  Think  of  the  advantages  of  living 
in  the  city — the  cultural  advantages.  And  there  is  a 
great  field  open  in  municipal  politics.  I  have  some  strong 
friends  there — and  one  gentleman — an  editor — even  went 


Respite  283 

so  far  as  to  say  there  might  be  a  demand  for  me  in 
public  life  in  St.  Pierre,  if  I  established  residence  there." 

"It  would  be  pretty  rough  on  father  to  pull  up  stakes 
here—" 

The  hint  came  again. 

"My  dear  child,  you  must  not  be  a  reactionary.  I  do 
not  like  to  see  you  start  out  your  married  life  with  the 
idea  of  subordinating  your  life  as  an  individual  to  a 
husband,  no  matter  how  beloved  he  may  be.  It  is  not 
wise  and  it  is  not  necessary.  Look  back  over  our  life. 
Have  I  ever  for  one  moment  failed  in  my  duty  towards 
the  home  or  towards  my  husband  or  child  and  has  it  not 
been  possible  at  the  same  time  for  me  to  keep  progress 
before  me  always  and  to  remember  that  the  modern 
woman  owes  it  to  herself  to  go  out  of  the  home  and  keep 
abreast  with  the  times  ?" 

But  it  was  not  a  question.  It  was  a  statement.  Freda 
made  no  reply  and  her  mother  changed  the  subject  with 
the  satisfied  air  of  the  sower  of  seed. 

"When  you  come  to  Ireland,"  she  told  her  father 
laughingly  that  night,  "you  will  sit  on  the  doorstep  and 
learn  to  smoke  a  pipe.  And  Gregory  will  be  president 
of  the  Republic.  And  I  will  be — (ask  mother) — a  model 
housewife,  chasing  the  pigs — " 

They  laughed  with  an  abandonment  which  indicated 
some  joke  deeper  than  the  banality  about  the  pigs. 

"It's  a  worthy  task,"  said  her  father.  "I'll  come — and 
I'll  enjoy  learning  to  smoke  a  pipe  and  see  Gregory  run 
the  government — and  as  for  you — whatever  you  do 
you'll  be  doing  it  with  spirit." 

She  nodded. 

"I've  just  begun  to  break  my  trail." 

Then  the  day  came  when  they  must  leave  the  little 
frame  house  and  after  the  excitement  of  getting  ex- 
tremely long  railway  tickets  at  the  station  and  checking 


284  Spellbinders 

all  Freda's  luggage  through  to  New  York,  they  said 
good-by  to  the  Thorstads  and  left  them  standing  to- 
gether, incongruous  even  in  their  farewells  to  their 
daughter. 

They  were  to  stop  at  St.  Pierre  over  night.  Mrs. 
Flandon  had  written  to  urge  them  to  do  so  and  Freda 
would  not  have  refused,  if  she  had  been  inclined  to, 
bearing  the  sense  of  her  obligation  to  them.  She  had 
not  told  her  father  of  that.  It  amused  her  to  think  that 
her  father  and  Gregory  each  felt  the  other  responsible 
for  those  Fortunatus  strings  of  railway  ticket.  But  she 
wanted  Gregory  to  meet  the  Flandons  again  that  the  debt 
might  be  more  explainable  later  on. 

St.  Pierre  was  familiar  this  time  when  they  entered  it 
in  mid-afternoon  as  she  had  on  that  first  arrival  with  her 
mother.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  Mrs.  Flandon  again  and 
to  taste  just  for  a  moment  the  comfortable  luxury  of 
the  Flandon  house.  Freda  felt  in  Mrs.  Flandon  a 
warmth  of  friendliness  which  made  it  easy  to  speak  of 
the  money  and  assure  her  of  Gregory's  ability  to  pay  it 
a  little  later. 

"You're  not  to  bother,"  said  Helen,  "until  you're  quite 
ready.  We  were  more  glad  to  send  it  than  I  can  tell  you. 
It's  a  hostage  to  fortune  for  us." 

Then  she  changed  the  subject  quickly. 

"I  wonder  if  you'll  mind  that  I  asked  a  few  people 
for  dinner  to-night.  You  married  a  celebrity  and  you 
want  to  get  used  to  it.  So  many  people  were  interested 
in  the  news  item  about  your  marriage  and  wanted  to 
meet  Gregory  and  you.  I  warned  them  not  to  dress  so 
that's  all  right." 

"It's  very  nice,"  said  Freda,  "I'll  enjoy  it  and  I  think 
i — though  I  never  dare  to  speak  for  Gregory — that  he  will 
too.    I  remember  having  a  beautiful  time  at  dinner  here 


Respite  285 

before.  When  I  was  here  visiting  the  Brownleys  you 
asked  me — do  you  remember  ?" 

"I  asked  the  Brownleys  to-night.  They  were  in  town 
— all  but  Allie.  I  asked  the  elder  two  and  Bob  and  her 
young  man — Ted  Smillie,  you  know." 

She  looked  at  Freda  a  little  quizzically  and  Freda 
looked  back,  wondering  how  much  she  knew. 

"Think  they'll  want  to  meet  me?"  she  asked  straight- 
forwardly. 

"I  do,  very  much.  I  think  it's  better,  Freda,  just  to 
put  an  end  to  any  silly  talk.  It  may  not  matter  to  you 
but  you  know  I  liked  your  father  so  much  and  it  occurred 
to  me  that  it  might  matter  to  him  if  any  untrue  gossip 
were  not  killed.     And  it's  so  very  easy  to  kill  it." 

"You  take  a  great  deal  of  trouble  for  me,"  protested 
Freda. 

Helen  hesitated.  She  was  on  the  verge  of  greater  con- 
fidence and  decided  against  it. 

"Let  me  do  as  I  please  then,  will  you?"  she  said  smil- 
ingly and  Freda  agreed. 

Helen  felt  a  little  dishonest  about  it.  The  dinner  was 
another  hostage  to  fortune.  It  was  gathering  up  the 
loose  ends  neatly — it  was  brushing  out  of  sight  bits  of 
unsightly  thought — establishing  a  basis  which  would 
enable  her  later  to  do  other  things. 

She  had  an  idea  that  it  would  please  Gage,  though  he 
had  been  non-committal  when  she  had  broached  the  idea 
of  having  Gregory  and  his  wife  for  a  brief  visit.  Helen 
had  seen  but  little  of  Gage  of  late.  She  knew  he  was 
working  hard  and  badly  worried  about  money.  They 
had  sold  a  piece  of  property  to  raise  that  thousand  for 
the  Macmillans  and  he  had  told  her  definitely  of  bad 
times  ahead  for  him.  She  offered  to  reduce  the  expenses 
of  the  household  and  he  had  agreed  in  the  necessity. 


286  Spellbinders 

They  must  shave  every  expense.  But  it  invigorated 
Helen.  She  had  amends  to  make  to  Gage  and  the  more 
practical  the  form  the  easier  it  was  to  make  them. 
Neither  of  them  desired  to  unnecessarily  trouble  those 
dark  waters  of  mental  conflict  now.  Helen  guessed  that 
Gage's  mind  was  not  on  her  and  that  the  bad  tangle  of 
his  business  life  absorbed  him.  Brusque,  haggard,  ab- 
sorbed, never  attempting  or  apparently  needing  affection, 
he  came  and  went.  Never  since  Carpenter's  death  had 
they  even  discussed  the  question  of  separation.  That 
possibility  was  there.  They  had  beaten  a  path  to  it.  But 
hysteria  was  too  thoroughly  weeded  out  of  Gage  to  press 
toward  it.  Without  mutual  reproach  they  both  saw  that 
separation  in  the  immediate  future  was  the  last  advan- 
tageous thing  for  the  work  of  either  of  them  and  flimsy 
as  that  foundation  seemed  for  life  together,  yet  it  held 
them.  They  turned  their  backs  upon  what  they  had  lost 
or  given  up  and  looked  ahead.  Helen  heard  Gage  refer 
some  political  question  to  her  for  the  first  time,  with  a 
kind  of  wonder.  She  suspected  irony,  then  dropped  her 
own  self-consciousness  as  it  became  apparent  that  he 
really  did  not  have  any  twisted  motive  behind  the  query. 
She  began  to  see  that  in  great  measure  he  had  swung 
loose  from  her,  substituting  some  new  strength  for  his 
dependence  on  her  love.  And,  when  some  moment  of 
emotional  sorrow  at  the  loss  of  their  ardors  came  over 
her,  she  turned  as  neatly  as  did  he  from  disturbing 
thought  to  the  work,  which  piled  in  on  her  by  letter  and 
by  conference. 

They  sat  at  dinner  in  the  long  white-paneled  dining- 
room,  twelve  men  and  women.  The  three  Brownleys 
and  young  Ted  Smillie — Jerrold  Haynes  because  Helen 
wanted  to  have  him  meet  Freda  and  Emily  Haight  be- 


Respite  287 

cause  she  fitted  in  with  Jerrold  now  that  Walter  Car- 
penter was  gone.  To  these  Helen  had  added  the  young 
Harold  Spencers  because  they  were  the  leaders  of  that 
group  of  young  people  who  made  or  destroyed  gossip. 
It  was  a  dinner  party  made  up  hurriedly  on  the  excuse 
of  Gregory's  celebrity  and  such  little  intrigue  as  was 
hidden  in  its  inception  made  it  no  less  a  pleasant  com- 
pany. 

Interest  was  concentrated  on  Freda  and  Gregory  of 
course  and  under  Helen's  deft  manipulation  the  story  of 
their  marriage  and  its  secrecy  was  told,  lightly,  but  with 
a  clearness  of  detail  that  sent  Ted's  eyes  rather  con- 
sciously to  his  plate  once  or  twice  as  he  avoided  Barbara's 
glance.  Ted  was  sitting  beside  Freda  and  paying  her 
open  homage  when  he  could  get  her  attention.  But  Gage 
had  much  to  say  to  her. 

"Are  you  still  chasing  romance  ?"  he  asked.  "I  always 
remember  your  startling  me  with  your  belief  that  women 
were  more  attractive  when  they  believed  in  romance." 

"Yes — I'm  still  after  it.  I  feel  the  least  bit  guilty 
towards  Gregory.  Because  while  he  goes  back  to  Ireland 
with  his  heart  in  his  hands  ready  to  offer  it  to  the  coun- 
try, the  whole  revolution  is  to  me  not  as  great  tragedy 
as  it  is  adventure.  It  is  tragedy  intellectually  but  not 
emotionally  as  far  as  I  am  concerned  while  to  Gregory" 
( — she  turned  her  head  to  glance  at  Gregory. 

"And  marriage  is  adventure  too,  isn't  it?" 

She  forgot  Ted  and  leaned  a  confidential  elbow  to- 
wards Gage,  resting  her  chin  in  her  cupped  hand. 

"I  wouldn't  dare  say  it  in  the  hearing  of  my  mother 
or  the  feminist  feminists  but  that's  what  it  is.  They  talk 
of  partnerships  and  new  contracts — but  they  can't  analyze 
away  or  starve  the  adventure  of  it.  All  this  talk — all  the 
development  of  women  changes  things,   but   its  chief 


288  Spellbinders 

change  is  in  making  the  women  type  different — stronger, 
finer,  you  know,  like  your  wife  and  Margaret  Duffield. 
But  even  with  women  like  that  when  it  comes  to  love 
and  to  marriage  it  is  adventure,  isn't  it?  You  can't  ra- 
tionalize things  which  aren't  rational  and  you  can't  mod- 
ernize the  things  that  are  eternal."  She  became  a  little 
shy,  afraid  of  her  words.  "Mother  thinks  I'm  a  reac- 
tionary. I  don't  think  I  am.  I  want  women  to  be 
stronger,  finer — I'll  work  for  that — but  that's  one  thing, 
Mr.  Flandon.  It  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  the  adven- 
ture between  men  and  women,  really." 

He  started  at  that.  But  Ted  claimed  Freda's  attention 
and  reluctantly  she  turned  to  him. 

"I  think  you  treated  me  rather  badly  not  telling  me  you 
were  married.  I  thought  all  along  that  I  had  a  chance, 
you  know." 

The  brazenness  did  not  make  her  angry.  Nothing 
could  anger  her  to-night.  She  was  all  warm  vigor,  per- 
vading every  contact  between  her  and  every  one  else. 

"Barbara  looks  very  well  to-night,"  she  answered  with 
cool  irrelevance. 

Barbara  did.  She  had  dressed  with  her  customary 
skill  but  with  the  wit  to  avoid  her  usual  look  of  sophis- 
tication. To-night  she  was  playing  the  artless  simple 
girl  for  Gregory's  benefit,  listening  to  him  with  only  an 
appreciative  comment  now  and  then.  It  was  clear  that 
Gregory  was  talking  to  her  as  he  talked  to  one  in  whom 
he  felt  there  was  intelligence. 

"And  how  clever  she  is,"  added  Freda  reflectively. 

The  talk  grew  more  general.  Barbara  called  the  atten- 
tion of  every  one  to  something  Gregory  had  said,  a  con- 
cession for  one  who  did  not  usually  share  her  dinner 
partners  or  else  a  successful  attempt  to  break  up  other 
conversations.    Irish  problems  led  to  a  discussion  of  gen- 


Respite  289 

eral  politics.  Helen  was  in  the  talk  now — vigorously. 
Mrs.  Brownley  gave  the  retailed  opinion  of  Mr.  Brown- 
ley  before  he  could  quote  himself. 

Gage  heard  without  contributing  to  what  was  being 
said.  He  was  listening  with  amusement  to  Mrs.  Brown- 
ley's  platitudes  and  half  unconsciously  letting  his  admira- 
tion rise  at  the  clarity  of  Helen's  thought  and  the  deft- 
ness of  her  phrases.  What  presence  she  had!  In  the 
contemplation  of  her  he  felt  the  problems  which  had 
been  harassing  him  all  day — deadlocks  in  plans,  money 
shortage,  fall  away.  As  they  had  used  to — he  slipped 
into  memories  and  amazingly  they  did  not  cause  him 
pain,  though  even  as  he  looked  he  saw  upon  her  the 
marks  of  the  work  she  had  done  and  would  do,  the  new 
definiteness,  the  look  of  being  headed  somewhere.  But 
his  rancor  seemed  to  have  burned  itself  out  and  with  it 
had  gone  the  old  possessive  passion.  He  stirred  rest- 
lessly.    Some  phoenix  was  rising. 

Mr.  Brownley  turned  at  his  movement,  offering  sym- 
pathy. 

"Nothing  for  us  to  do,  Gage,"  he  chuckled  tritely, 
"except  to  talk  about  recipes.  The  women  talk  politics 
now." 

Gage  did  not  laugh  at  the  old  joke. 

"Women  and  men  may  get  together  on  a  subject  yet," 
he  answered,  with  heavy  awkwardness. 

Instantly  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  what  he  had 
meant  to  say  for  a  long  time.  He  caught  the  incredulous, 
almost  pitiful  look  on  Helen's  face  as  she  heard  and 
pretended  not  to  hear,  met  the  quick,  wondering  glance 
she  snatched  away  from  him. 

Her  tremulousness  gave  him  confidence.  Impatient  of 
his  guests  now,  he  looked  across  at  her,  his  eyes  kindling. 
Whether  they  could  work  it  out  through  his  storms  and 


290  Spellbinders 

hers  ceased  to  gnaw  at  his  thought  of  her.  He  saw  her 
strong,  self-sufficient,  felt  his  own  strength  rising  to 
meet  hers,  also  self-sufficient.  The  delight  of  the  adven- 
ture, the  indestructible  adventure  between  man  and 
woman  remained.     His  mind  moored  there. 


THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  priod  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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